


Pendragon & Pendragon

by Charmsilver



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, Blow Jobs, Complete, Father issues, First Time, Fluff, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Merlin (Merlin), Kidnapping, Lawyer Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), M/M, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Protective Merlin (Merlin), Secretary Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22475782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmsilver/pseuds/Charmsilver
Summary: Arthur Pendragon is an estate lawyer and one of the wealthiest men in London. Merlin is his undervalued secretary and closet sorcerer, who can't remember why he still works for the prat. It's just... there's something about Arthur's smile.But on one rainy day in Wales secrets begin to unravel. What Merlin learns shines a startling light on the Pendragon family legacy, and puts both him and Arthur in danger.Together they must face the anguish of Arthur's past and right the wrongs of his father. And if doing so brings them closer together, well, Merlin's not complaining.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 98
Kudos: 641





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so happy to finally be posting this fic - the longest one I've ever written. I will be posting it chapter by chapter every 2-3 days, but don't worry, it's completed so there's no chance of it being discontinued.
> 
> Before we begin, a couple of notes:
> 
> First, thanks to https://nyxelestia.livejournal.com/7935.html for helping with some Anglo Saxon words, as well as https://www.oldenglishtranslator.co.uk/. So very helpful! In saying that, don't assume my use of Anglo Saxon is anything other than nonsense. 
> 
> Second, I am no legal expert. Whatever I've written about estates and wills and legal documents is mostly invented. Since this is a fic I didn't put much effort into researching this area. I'm just hoping you're all as much in the dark as I am! 
> 
> I will be updating tags as I go to try and avoid spoiling the story.
> 
> Ok that's it! Thanks for reading - I hope you like it.

“Merlin, set up an appointment with Mrs Delaney for next week. Tuesday if she can manage it.

“And who’s my four o’clock? Move them to tomorrow.

“Also, I need a copy of Mr Davenshaw’s will _now_. _Don’t_ make me ask you again!

“Get me a cup of coffee will you? _No_ sugar this time.”

Merlin grumbles. Loudly. _Why_ he keeps dragging himself to this godforsaken job, he doesn’t know. He curses his uncle Gaius for putting a good word in with Arthur Pendragon, estate lawyer extraordinaire and ruthless overlord of the Pendragon fortune. Arthur had hired him only because he hadn’t wanted to offend Gaius; he hadn’t even needed a secretary, and Merlin certainly had had no desire to _be_ one.

But Merlin had been in dire need of employment. He could have hardly turned down such an offer, especially given the salary.

So he’d turned up dutifully at Arthur’s office hideously early one grizzly November morning, and here he is still, grudgingly shifting a pile of papers on his desk in the hopes of locating Mr Davenshaw’s will.

In the end he gives up and simply waves his hand about. The stack of papers in question flies out from underneath Merlin’s rucksack and into his hand, crumpled and ever so slightly tea-stained.

Sighing, Merlin takes them through to Arthur’s office. Unlike Merlin’s little corner, Arthur keeps his desk utterly tidy. It’s almost like he’s a robot, Merlin thinks. He plunks the rumpled will down in front of his employer.

Arthur’s eye twitches.

“You could not be more incompetent if you tried, could you?” he says, clearly restraining himself from yelling.

Merlin grins, though it comes out rather sheepish. “I’m sure if I really put some effort into it…”

Arthur’s other eye twitches

“Why don’t you just print another copy?” Merlin suggests.

Arthur levels a glare at him that could raze buildings. Luckily Merlin is of stubborn ilk. “This is a legal document, Merlin. We cannot simply _print_ another copy.”

“Right.” Merlin gulps. Why hadn’t he used a spot of magic to tidy it up before he’d come barrelling in here?

“Sometimes I wonder about your education,” Arthur says grimly.

Merlin grimaces. He’d faked his secretarial credentials on his CV. He should’ve known it would come back to bite him in the arse.

“Never mind,” Arthur sighs. He rubs his face with his hand and Merlin feels a jolt of pity for the man, paired with a pang of guilt.

“Sorry,” Merlin says.

Arthur glares at him. “Go get my coffee, will you? You can’t possibly mess that up.”

Pity quickly turns to indignation, but Merlin slinks from the room anyway; he has no wish to irk Arthur anymore today.

In truth Merlin isn’t all that bad at his job. He usually always completes the tasks Arthur assigns him, and it’s not _that_ often that he cocks it up. It’s just that Arthur always forgets the good work Merlin does, and always remembers his occasional blunders.

He walks to the café next door and orders Arthur’s usual (flat white, _no sugar_ ), and an americano for himself. Gwen takes his money (well, Arthur’s money) with a sympathetic smile. “Arthur shouldn’t order you around like this, Merlin,” she says. “You’re his secretary, not his manservant.”

Merlin shrugs. “I’m not sure what the difference is at this point.”

Gwen frowns, but Merlin appreciates that she takes his side. It’s nice to have an ally.

“He’s a bit arrogant, isn’t he?” Gwen whispers conspiratorially, as if Arthur might have spies listening in to their conversation – it is, Merlin thinks, entirely possible.

Merlin takes the coffee and shoots her a grin. “Oh, he’s much more than that,” Merlin says loudly. “Pompous, condescending, tyrannical… but I suppose I should be grateful…” He takes a sip of his drink. “He does pay for my coffee addiction after all.”

Gwen’s laugh follows him out the door and into the cold January afternoon.

At the door to Pendragon & Pendragon Merlin lifts Arthur’s coffee to his lips and whispers a warming spell, then he lets himself in, an eddy of icy wind following in his wake. He shivers and shuts the door quickly, thankful that Arthur has never been stingy about paying for proper heating.

He can hear Arthur on the phone; he’s using his ‘ _I’m exceedingly frustrated but I’m trying to be patient_ ’ voice, which almost certainly means he’s talking to a difficult client. The third son of the deceased Mr Davenshaw, Merlin suspects. Quietly he pads into Arthur’s office and places the cup of coffee on the desk. Arthur snatches it up keenly and takes a sip while the person on the other end of the phone says something that Merlin is fairly certain is an obscenity.

The coffee must be to Arthur’s liking, for he presses his lips together and shuts his eyes for a brief moment, his posture relaxing ever so slightly.

Then he opens his eyes and looks at Merlin, and his expression is one of such intense gratitude that Merlin’s insides twist. He makes a hasty retreat to his own corner, heart flip flopping in his chest.

He sinks down at his chair and presses his hand to his cheek. Cool against hot.

Why does he keep coming back to this job?

Well.

For the same reason he keeps fetching Arthur coffee.

*

Arthur’s a prat.

He’s a prat, and an arse, and pompous dollop-head.

He never thanks Merlin or offers any praise. He’s ungrateful and quick to scold, arrogant and spoiled, and he treats Merlin little better than a servant at times.

But none of that stops Merlin from thinking about him in the shower later that evening.

None of that stops Merlin imagining Arthur’s hands on his chest, his shoulders, his arms. Arthur’s hands would be warm where they touched Merlin – warm and assertive – he would stroke Merlin’s sides purposefully and use his lovely fingers to grip Merlin’s hips. He would reach around and squeeze Merlin’s arse and it would be _brilliant_.

*

Arthur can also be kind.

When he’s with his clients Arthur seems to have endless reserves of patience. While they weep or argue or scream over the estates of their loved ones, he sits calmly and offers tissues or advice or words of comfort. His manner is so soothing, his expression so compassionate, any client is swiftly mollified enough for Arthur to explain the steps that must next be taken.

He is also an expert at settling wills that are in dispute. His unflinching demeanour and adherence to reason seems to pacify even the most furious individuals. Give Arthur one hour and an empty meeting room and he can convince a family on the brink of war to make a compromise that will keep them out of the court room.

Sometimes Merlin is a little in awe of this Arthur.

And he’s bloody good in a crisis. There was the time Gwen broke her arm when she fell dusting the high shelves at work. She called Merlin, sobbing from the pain, and Merlin told Arthur, and Arthur dropped everything and drove Gwen to the hospital; he sat with her while they did the x-rays and bandaged her up, and then he drove her home and bought her dinner. She was a little bit in love with Arthur after that, at least until Lance came along.

Yes, Arthur is good in a crisis. If he weren’t such a proper professional about everything that would be his motto. He’d have a little jingle on the radio – _Mr Pendragon – he’s good in a crisis, he’s good with a spill. He’ll sort out your testaments, your estates and your wills!_

And then Arthur will go and do something like call Merlin a ‘blithering idiot’, reminding Merlin that is he really just a wanker in handsome ( _really_ handsome) disguise.

*

That night, after his (steamy) shower, Merlin scarfs down a plate of beans on toast, fixes himself a cup of tea, and plonks his backside down on his ratty old sofa.

He flips open the book on his coffee table and finds the spell he’s been working on all week. It’s been giving him trouble, probably because he’s mispronouncing one of the words, but he’s determined to get it to work. If he does he’ll be able to control the temperature of his flat without the need for his rusty old heaters that never seem to do more than make dangerous plinking sounds.

It should be easy – the spell is clear – but every time he says the words nothing happens.

But Merlin is nothing if not persistent. He tries again, adding a little extra emphasis to the syllables:

“ ** _ic hæte þone tūn._** ”

Nothing happens. The room is as cold as it ever was.

He tries several more times, with a number of different inflections, but no dice. At last, huffing in frustration, Merlin slams the book shut.

He takes a sip of his forgotten tea.

It’s cold.

“ ** _þurhgléde se drync_**!” The tea lets loose a waft of steam and Merlin sips happily. As his belly warms, an idea slips into his mind. All this time he’s been trying to heat his flat with a locational spell… but what if the room was like a cup of tea? He could use the same basic spell he uses to heat the liquid in his mug to heat the air in his room.

Excited, Merlin rummages through his bags until he finds his Anglo-Saxon dictionary. It takes him only a few moments to find the words he needs; quickly he scribbles them down.

**_þurhgléde_** stays the same, but he swaps out **_se drync_** _,_ for **_se lfyt_**. But he needs a boundary, for who knows how far the spell will travel otherwise. He rubs his nose, thinking.

Ah! He turns the pages of the dictionary frantically and alights upon the word he’s looking for: **_þæt béodærn_**.

But there’s one more thing… he needs to specify _how_ hot, or the spell might turn his flat into a sauna.

“Hmm.” Merlin lies back and hooks one foot over his knee, jiggling it as he thinks. “I’ve got it!”

“ ** _þurhgléde se lfyt þæt béodærn þæt_** **_sumorhát_**!”

His pronunciation isn’t perfect, and the grammar is certainly a bit shaky, but the spell works! Merlin feels the temperature rise by several degrees until it’s hot enough for him to divest himself of his scarf and woolly blanket. Grinning, Merlin jumps off the couch and opens the door to his bedroom. The cold hits him instantly, but the heat from the living room doesn’t extend beyond the threshold.

Merlin goes back to his toasty room and gets out his phone. He opens the temperature app and gets it to record the temperature of the room.

23 degrees Celsius, it reads.

A perfectly pleasant summer’s day.

Merlin flops onto the couch and laughs out loud. He’s done it. He’s actually done it! Gaius would be so cross, but Merlin doesn’t even care. He’ll never be cold again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read, left kudos and commented already!

He’s not supposed to do magic at work.

Arthur doesn’t know anything about it, of course. No, it is Gaius who forbids him from practising his spells in the office. Magic, it would seem, is as rare as the unicorn. Indeed, Merlin has never met anyone else who can perform enchantments; he has never seen it used except for when he is the one using it.

Which is precisely why he’s not supposed to risk exposure for things like re-shelving Arthur’s textbooks, or warming Arthur’s coffee. But Arthur is a particularly unjust employer who insists on shouldering Merlin with far more tasks than he can manage. A little magic here and there means he can complete all his work and still go home on the dot at five o’clock.

It is a wonder that Arthur’s never noticed.

“Merlin! For god’s sake! What have you done with Mr Davenshaw’s will this time?” Arthur’s voice roars out from his office, like a lion who might rip Merlin’s head off.

Merlin hurries into the adjacent room, where Arthur is standing behind his desk, eyes blazing with fury. “Merlin, so help me, if you’ve gone and lost that will again, ten minutes before my meeting with the Davenshaw family, I will personally make sure you can never find work in any reputable establishment _ever_ again.”

Arthur’s words are harsh, but Merlin has learnt now that Arthur is mostly bluster and little bite. Still, he flinches.

“It’s right here,” he says, drawing it out from behind his back.

Arthur snatches it from him, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “This is…” he begins. He flips to the signature page.

“I think you’ll find everything is in order,” Merlin says.

Arthur’s expression is one of comical perplexity. “What, exactly, did you do?” he asks, waving at the now sparkling white sheets of paper, not a tea stain in sight.

Merlin shrugs. “I cleaned it,” he says simply.

“You… cleaned it.” Arthur looks like he wants to ask how, but then he glances at his watch and thinks better of it. “Well, Merlin, you’ve actually done something useful for a change. Perhaps I won’t fire you after all.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “That’s a pity,” he says drily.

Arthur grins.

Merlin’s heart kicks like a mule.

When the Davenshaw’s arrive Arthur greets them at the door, all sympathetic smiles and professional courtesy. Merlin watches as they disappear into the meeting room, sighing with relief when the door clicks shut behind them.

He shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was a pointless risk.

But it was worth it just to see Arthur aim that gorgeous smile at him.

*

Later that day Arthur’s in good spirits. The meeting with the Davenshaw’s had gone well. Despite the awkwardness surrounding the allotment of the late Mr Davenshaw’s classic car collection, the three sons had agreed they would settle the matter of who received which vehicles between themselves, saving Arthur much in the way of familial torment.

“Come on, Merlin,” Arthur says, emerging from his office with a scarf around his neck. “We’ll get coffee.”

Merlin’s traitorous heart gives another mulish kick. He rises from his chair and dons his own scarf. “You’re paying,” he says, following Arthur out the door.

They walk to the café in silence, Merlin hunched against the freezing wind, Arthur striding purposefully, as if he isn’t feeling the cold at all. An absurd part of Merlin’s brain imagines Arthur wrapping his arm around Merlin and tugging him close so as to lend him some of his warmth.

The more rational part of his brain thinks Arthur would sooner drop snow down Merlin’s shirt than do anything that remotely resembles cuddling.

The bell jangles cheerily as Arthur swings open the café door. He stops on the threshold to stamp the slush from his boots, leaving Merlin to stand in the cold for a few seconds longer than necessary. At last they’re inside where it’s warm and cosy. Merlin waves at Gwen and claims their usual spot in the corner while Arthur orders for both of them. Soon enough he joins Merlin, dropping his stylish leather gloves on the table and sinking down into the cushioned seat. For a fleeting moment Arthur looks worn out, his face taut with exhaustion, but he pulls himself together so quickly Merlin wonders if he’d actually imagined it.

When the coffee arrives Merlin pulls it towards him greedily, soaking the warmth from the cup into his frozen hands. He sighs, sniffing the delicious aromas wafting from the mug. When he glances up he finds that Arthur is watching him, an inscrutable smile on his face.

Merlin feels a flush begin to work its way up his neck.

But then Arthur’s attention turns to his own coffee, which he sips carefully. “So how did you clean those papers?” Arthur asks as he sets his cup back in its saucer. “I can’t think of a single way you might have erased tea-stains, and ironed out those creases…” His face pinches into a frown. “If it weren’t for the perfectly intact signatures I might have suspected forgery. But your own handwriting is hardly a credit to you; I find it difficult to believe you would be able to replicate anyone else’s with any success.”

A prickling feeling works its way up Merlin’s spine. This is the closest Arthur has come to guessing Merlin’s hidden talent.

But who is likely to suspect magic? To everybody except Merlin it is a fantasy, made up to entertain children.

Merlin taps his nose. “A magician never reveals his secrets,” he says coolly. It’s not a lie, at least.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Right. Well, thank you, Merlin. I’m glad the Davenshaw siblings didn’t see it in such a state.”

Merlin sinks down in his seat. “Sorry,” he says, chastened. He rubs at his eyes. “I’m not sure how it ended up like it did.”

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur nods with an air of understanding. “You’re tired,” he says. “We both are.”

Thinking he must have misheard, Merlin sits bolt upright. “What?” he says. “Come again?”

Arthur’s lips twitch. “So you’ll be pleased to know,” he continues as if Merlin hadn’t spoken. “That this weekend will be a long one, as I’ll be taking the Monday off.”

“But you never take a day off!” Merlin says loudly, though he lowers his voice at the glare Arthur shoots him. “Are you all right?” he asks, unable to keep the worry out of his tone.

“If you must know,” Arthur says; he picks the salt shaker up and puts it back down, picks up the pepper shaker up and puts it back down. That look on his face is back – the one that suggests he’s more tired than he’s willing to let on. “I take this particular day off every year. It’s an… anniversary of sorts.”

“Oh.” Merlin’s mind goes blank. He casts his memories for any suggestion of Arthur having a romantic partner but comes up short. He would know – surely?

“An anniversary for what?” he probes.

Arthur lets out a gust of air from his lungs. After a moment’s pause he says, “My father’s death.”

*

The details of Uther Pendragon’s death were known to Merlin, as the man had been a friend to Gaius for many years. Three years ago, Uther had hosted an extravagant party at the Pendragon manor. As the festivities came to a close, Uther retired to bed. The next morning the housekeeper found him, still in bed, but very much lacking in life. He had died in his sleep, the victim of a brain aneurysm.

Arthur had been twenty-five at the time, and Uther’s money, property, and business had passed to him overnight.

After that Arthur had had no family left, for his mother had already died giving birth to Arthur, and though he had uncles and aunts they lived far away, and Arthur had never been particularly close to any of them.

Merlin knew what it was to lose a parent – his dad had died when he was a boy. But his mum still lived. He could not imagine the grief her death would cause him.

So his heart aches for Arthur.

“Oh,” he says. Arthur’s not looking at him, and Merlin can see that he’s fighting his emotions, but they’re spilling out across his face anyway. “Oh,” Merlin says again, because he has lost any sense of what this moment requires from him. Comfort? Dismissal? Comedic relief?

Suddenly Arthur’s countenance improves. He blinks the torment from his face and sits up straight, eyeing Merlin once more. “So you can spend the day in the pub, or whatever it is you do in your spare time.”

Merlin splutters indignantly, relieved that Arthur’s melancholy has passed. “The pub?” he says loudly. “Wherever did you get that idea?”

Arthur arches an eyebrow. “Oh, just something Gaius mentioned.”

“ _Gaius_!” Merlin yelps.

He should be irritated, but how can he be when Arthur’s smiling at him like that?

“You’re a prat,” he tells him. “I know you know I don’t go to the pub.”

Arthur shrugs and downs the dregs of his coffee. “Well, the day is yours. Just as long as you’re back at work bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on Tuesday morning… then I don’t care what you get up to. Although I certainly won’t be taking you out for hangover brunch.”

Merlin throws the sugar packet at Arthur and, much to his satisfaction, hits him square on the nose.


	3. Chapter 3

Later, after Merlin’s already gone home for the evening, Arthur texts him.

_I’ll be out of cell phone range on Monday. You’ll need to send a message to my current clients to let them know I won’t be available until Tuesday morning._

Merlin huffs, he should have known better than to think Arthur would let him have an entirely work-free three-day weekend.

_Sure. Where are you going?_

Arthur doesn’t reply immediately and Merlin gets up to make a snack. When he comes back there’s a message waiting.

_My father’s grave_.

Merlin frowns down at his phone, his fingers hovering over the keys. It’s just not right that Arthur should go alone.

_Do you want company?_

Merlin sends it off before he can change his mind, thought he regrets it when the reply comes back almost immediately.

_No_.

Sighing, Merlin gets ready for bed. He brushes his teeth, has a quick shower, pulls on his flannel pyjamas, and dives under the covers. His bedroom is still freezing, but he hasn’t enchanted it like his living room because he likes snuggling under his duvet at night. He checks his phone just before bed to make sure there’s an alarm set for the morning, and he’s surprised to see another message from Arthur.

It reads, simply:

_Yes._

Merlin’s heart performs an entire acrobatic routine inside his chest.

*

On Monday, at the crack of dawn, Arthur picks Merlin up from outside his flat. Merlin climbs into the passenger seat of his charcoal grey Lexus with some trepidation. He’s never spent time with Arthur outside of the office, unless you count their occasional forays down to the coffee shop.

“So where’s your father’s grave?” Merlin asks once he’s got himself settled and belted in.

Arthur doesn’t look at him when he says, “Monmouth.”

Merlin gapes. “But that’s in Wales!”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Arthur huffs in annoyance. “You don’t have to come,” he snipes.

“No,” Merlin says quickly. “It’s fine. But I didn’t bring any snacks.”

Arthur snorts. “We’ll get something on the way.”

They lapse into silence while Arthur navigates his way out of London, and by the time they hit the M4 Merlin is feeling sleepy, lulled into drowsiness by the low hum of the car and the soft, comfortable seats. He stares out of the window for a time, until the houses blur into little more than streaks of grey, matched by the darkening of the oncoming clouds, whose black bellies threaten rain.

When Merlin wakes they’ve stopped at a petrol station. He has no idea how long they’ve been driving, but the ground is already drenched with rain, great big pellets falling from the sky and forming huge puddles on the road. Merlin shivers, and that’s when he notices that Arthur’s jacket is draped over his knees. He suspects Arthur didn’t put it there for the purpose of keeping Merlin warm – more likely he took it off and threw it onto the passenger seat, forgetting Merlin was already seated there. All the same, Merlin curls his fingers around the soft collar; he has to resist the urge to bring it up to his face and bury his nose in it. No doubt it smells like Arthur’s particular brand of aftershave.

At that moment Arthur appears in the driver side window. He pulls open the door, letting a gust of cold air into the vehicle, before manoeuvring himself into his seat. He’s holding two cups of coffee and he hands one of them to Merlin.

It’s an americano, warm against Merlin’s cold fingers. He inhales the bitter scent gratefully. “Thanks,” he says, voice rough from sleep.

Arthur takes a sip of his own drink. “We’re almost there,” he says. “It’s just another half hour from here.”

“Right.” Merlin tries to read Arthur’s expression. Is he sad? Anxious? Nervous? But his face is curiously blank. Whatever Arthur is thinking, he doesn’t want Merlin to know. Besides, Merlin can’t help but be distracted by the sight of Arthur’s forearms, exposed to the elbow where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. His skin is lightly tanned, covered with fine, blond hairs. There’s something enchanting about witnessing Arthur like this – more casual than Merlin has ever seen him – for he never wears anything but the swankiest suits to work. He looks young, less like a hotshot lawyer and more like a boy.

They drive on, Merlin taking small sips of his coffee (which is of the stale, petrol station variety), and neither of them speaking. They pass through Monmouth, and turn south along the border of the River Wye. At last they pull off the main road and onto a gravel driveway that snakes back towards Wales, through acres of old woodland, until they come to an old manor. The house is abandoned, that much is obvious. The grounds are unkempt, the brick façade discoloured and obscured by wild ivy in many places. Whoever lived here hasn’t lived here for many years.

“What is this place?” Merlin asks as they pull up beside the old entryway.

Arthur puts the car into park. “Camelot Manor,” he says.

“Your dad is buried here?”

But Arthur isn’t listening. He’s staring up at the house with a frown, as if remembering some particularly painful memory. “Come on,” he says eventually, extricating himself from the car. “It’s a bit of a walk.”

_To where_? Merlin wants to ask, but Arthur’s already striding away behind the house, his white shirt flapping in the brisk wind. Merlin jumps out the car, taking Arthur’s jacket with him, and follows behind. At least the rain has stopped.

*

They walk for around ten minutes along an overgrown path, picking their way around prickly brambles and over fallen tree trunks, until they come to a large clearing. It’s a wide meadow, tangled with weeds and the remnants of wildflowers. In the summer it must be beautiful, but under the cold January sky it is quite bleak.

Arthur walks to the centre of the meadow and kneels down in the grass. There, half buried by the choking weeds, is a gravestone.

_Uther Pendragon_ , it reads. _1951-2016_.

And in smaller, less distinguishable letters:

_vincit qui se vincit_.

Arthur pulls away the weeds that have smothered the stone. It is plain – a simple rectangular marker without embellishment. He presses his palm to the top edge and curls his fingers around the weathered stone.

Merlin stands a short distance away, uncertain of what to do. Arthur appears lost in his own thoughts and memories. His gaze wanders, flickering to the trees that surround them. They seem old, like they might possess ancient wisdom and magic. Indeed, Merlin’s own magic stirs inside him, as if communicating with the silent forest.

That’s when he sees her. A woman at the edge of the trees, dressed in a sleeveless shirt in a shade of bright red, and sleek black trousers like one would wear to a business meeting. Her hair, on the other hand, is untamed, curling in loops and whorls over her head and cascading down her shoulders. Merlin’s stomach twists with a sense of unease.

“Arthur!” he says, turning to catch Arthur’s attention. Arthur lifts his head, startled.

“What is it?” he asks, peeved that Merlin has interrupted his silent vigil.

“There’s a woman.” Merlin says, pointing towards the trees. “She’s watching us.” But when he looks back at the place he’d seen her, she’s gone. Vanished as if she’d never been there in the first place.

“She was over there,” Merlin says quickly. “I swear, Arthur.”

Arthur stands, frowning at the space Merlin is pointing to. “There’s nobody there, Merlin,” he says, though he sounds worried. “There’s nobody around for miles.”

But Merlin can’t shake the feeling of dread, even as they make their way back to the house. He keeps glancing right and left, expecting the woman to make another appearance, but he sees nothing but trees and bushes. To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur produces an iron key from his pocket and opens the front door of the house. He leads the way inside, through a dusty foyer, down a damp corridor, and into a large kitchen, lit by high windows. In the centre is a long table surrounded by benches. Arthur sits himself down and rubs his hands over his face, exhaustion plain to see.

“Are you all right?” Merlin asks, sitting on the other end of the bench.

Arthur nods.

“Why is your dad buried here?” Merlin asks gently. He still hasn’t worked out the connection between the Pendragons and this place, though it’s clear it’s part of their estate.

“He’s not,” Arthur says after a pause. “His body was cremated in London. His ashes scattered beneath the rose bushes outside Pendragon Manor.”

Arthur pauses again, gathering himself. “But we lived here, once. I was born in this house and lived here for most of my childhood.”

Merlin blinks, surprised by this admission. He had always assumed Arthur grew up in London.

“You grew up here?” He glances around at the kitchen. It’s homely enough, but the rest of the house seems unfriendly, too large to ever be cosy.

Arthur tucks his chin down against his chest. He looks cold, his forearms still exposed to the chill. Merlin longs to roll down his sleeves and keep him warm. He settles for handing him his jacket instead. Arthur takes it and shrugs it on absent-mindedly.

It’s disorienting to see Arthur so pensive and distracted. He’s normally alert, quick to respond and aware of his surroundings. But Arthur may as well be in another world, so pained is his expression.

“And you come here every year?” Merlin asks.

Arthur nods. “I still own this house, and these grounds… they passed to me when my father died. I used to play in those woods when I was a boy; I pretended I was a knight, battling evil and protecting my family from harm.” Arthur’s lips twitch into a half smile. “When I was fifteen my father moved us to London, and we never saw this place again. I didn’t know it was still part of the estate until he died and it was listed among his assets. By then it was already deteriorating.” Bitterness infuses Arthur’s voice. “My father left it to decay.”

The anger within Arthur simmers just below the surface.

“Were you close with your dad?” Merlin asks gently, though suspecting he already knows the answer.

Arthur’s posture shifts; he runs a hand over his face, pressing the tips of his fingers into his eyes as it to ward off a headache. “Do you want the truth?” Arthur asks, his face a tangled web of emotions.

Merlin shrugs. “You can tell me whatever you like.”

This seems to please Arthur, for he smiles, albeit sadly. “The truth is, Uther Pendragon wasn’t a good father. He criticised everything I did; he made me feel worthless, like I was a bad son if I didn’t do everything in the way he wanted. I was never good enough, never strong enough, never ruthless enough. I could never please him. And I only ever wanted to please him.” Arthur pauses, exhausted by this admission. “But…” he trails off, mouth pinching into a frown.

“But you loved him,” Merlin supplies.

Arthur nods.

Merlin shuffles closer and curls his hand over Arthur’s knee. “Your dad was wrong about you, Arthur,” Merlin says. “And you’re a better man than he ever was.”

Arthur huffs. “And yet I still ask myself every day if he would be proud of me.”

“That’s natural. We all seek the approval of our parents, don’t we?”

“Do you?” Arthur meets Merlin’s eye, causing Merlin’s heart to thump loudly.

“’Course,” Merlin says. “I always want to make my mum proud. And I wonder about my dad all the time.”

Arthur’s eyes widen as he remembers that Merlin’s father is also dead. “Right,” he says. “Well, that certainly is reassuring.”

Merlin can sense there’s a part of the story that he’s missing. There’s a reason Arthur returns to this dilapidated house every year to see the false grave of a father who mistreated him, but he doesn’t want to upset Arthur anymore by further probing. “Do you want to go home?” Merlin asks, squeezing Arthur’s knee. “I could drive, if you’re too tired.”

The look Arthur gives him is pure disbelief. “Let you drive my car?” he splutters. “I should think not.”

Ah, that’s the Arthur he knows. Merlin rolls his eyes. “Your confidence in me is truly heart-warming.”

Arthur snorts; he stands and heads for the door. “It’s nothing personal, Merlin,” he says. “I don’t let anyone drive my car.”

*

They stop in Monmouth on the way home to get sandwiches and more coffee. Arthur is quiet as they eat, but his face has lost that haunted look he’d worn at the manor. Once they’re on their way again Arthur flicks on the radio to one of those cheesy old-timey stations that only plays music from the 1950s. Merlin almost laughs at the absurdity of it, because _of course_ Arthur Pendragon loves the blues.

Merlin falls asleep somewhere around Bristol and wakes just as they reach the outskirts of London. The radio’s gone quiet, and Arthur’s jacket is back on Merlin’s lap.

It can hardly be an accident this time.

He looks over at Arthur, whose face is pale in the darkening light. He looks drained and Merlin almost suggests that he take tomorrow off work. But Arthur would never take an unscheduled day off unless it was an emergency.

They pull up outside Merlin’s flat. Night has well and truly fallen by now and the lamps are all that illuminate the deserted street.

“Thank you for coming with me today,” Arthur says quietly.

Merlin pauses with the door already half-way open. His eyes flick to Arthur. “That’s all right,” Merlin replies, smiling. “It was better than the pub, anyway.”

Arthur grins. “Goodnight, Merlin.”

“Goodnight, Arthur.” Merlin ignores the thudding of his heart and steps out onto the street. He hurries to his building and lets himself in through the foyer doors. Arthur doesn’t pull away until the door shuts behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'vincit qui se vincit' translates as 'he conquers who conquers himself'.


	4. Chapter 4

The following day Arthur is crabby at work.

He scolds Merlin for his untidy desk, grumbles when the phone rings, and makes Merlin fetch his coffee far earlier than usual.

By three o’clock Merlin’s sympathy is waning. He suspects Arthur got very little sleep last night, but that’s no excuse for picking on Merlin even more than usual. Arthur is even a little frosty with his clients, which is entirely unlike him.

In a quiet moment Merlin creeps into Arthur’s office. To his surprise, Arthur’s got his head in his hands, a swathe of forgotten documents under his elbows. Sighing, Merlin steps closer until he’s on the other side of the desk. “Arthur,” he says firmly. “Why don’t you go home early?”

Arthur jumps. “What?” he says, rubbing at his forehead.

“I said: why don’t you go home early?”

“Why would I do that?”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “Because you’re being an insufferable prat.”

Arthur splutters indignantly. “You can’t say that,” he chastises.

“I can. You’re obviously tired. You’re not at your best. Go home, Arthur. You’ve finished all your meetings for the day anyway.”

The glare Arthur levels at him is formidable. But Merlin stands his ground until it fades to a sheepish grimace. “You may be right,” he admits.

“’Course I am,” Merlin says.

Arthur shuffles the papers on his desk back into a respectable pile and stands. He meets Merlin’s gaze once more and opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again, his expression conflicted. “Why don’t you go home as well,” he says eventually. “I suppose you’re tired too.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Arthur Pendragon?” Merlin jokes.

“You better go before I change my mind,” Arthur retorts.

Grinning, Merlin scrambles to gather his things. He’s ready before Arthur, but he’s not willing to risk being caught in some last minute paperwork so he doesn’t dare poke his head into Arthur’s office.

“Bye, Arthur!” he calls, halfway out the door.

“Get out of here already!” Arthur calls back.

Merlin shuts the door behind him on the way out, unable to stop his grin spreading from ear to ear.

*

The early finish gives Merlin a chance to do some grocery shopping and pop to the post office to mail a card for his mum’s birthday, so it’s six o’clock by the time he’s back in his building. He fumbles for his keys on the stairs, juggling various bags between his hands, but outside the front door he pauses.

His magic recoils; the sensation is so strong he has the urge to turn tail and run. For a moment he just stands there unmoving, heart beating a wild rhythm for reasons he does not understand. He turns the key in the lock slowly and pushes the door open.

It’s immediately clear that someone has been inside his flat. The ornaments he keeps on the table in his hallway are on the floor, including his favourite model of the Château de Pierrefonds; the turrets have snapped off and one corner has a great big chip out of it. Merlin can’t stop staring at it.

Slowly he picks his way around the corner and into the living room.

He gasps, the shopping bags falling from his hands.

The room is in ruins.

His furniture is slashed, his possessions scattered. Someone’s been in here, and they were looking for something. Merlin casts his gaze around. The TV’s still in place, his laptop’s on the floor, his expensive headphones next to it. What did they want, if not those things? Merlin has nothing else of value.

He looks down at the coffee table. Everything that was once on top of it is now on the floor.

But –

Where…?

“Fuck,” he says out loud.

His book of spells is gone.

And that’s when he notices the temperature; the heating spell he’d cast upon his flat is no longer working.

Something cold and dreadful lodges itself in Merlin’s chest. His mind abruptly conjures up the image of the woman he saw in the woods at Camelot Manor. She had evoked the same sense of dismay within him. Could this be something to do with her…?

All of a sudden Merlin no longer feels safe. He turns around and leaves, locking the door behind him. On his way out of the building he pulls out his phone, dialling the first number that comes to mind.

_He’s good in a crisis, he’s good with a spill!_

He can’t get that stupid jingle he made up out of his head, and it plays over and over while the phone rings, mocking him.

At last, Arthur picks up. “Merlin?” he says, sounding surprised.

“Um. Hi.” Merlin has to suck in a breath in order to speak coherently. “Someone broke into my flat. I don’t know what to do.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath on the other end, then Arthur’s calm and soothing voice. “You should call the police,” he says. “Where are you now?”

“Outside,” he says. “I didn’t want to stay there. They trashed everything, Arthur. They – they – “

“All right, Merlin, it’s all right. Just breathe for me.”

Merlin does. The panic subsides.

“I’m coming to pick you up,” Arthur says. “But you need to call the police first. Can you do that?”

Merlin nods, then, remembering Arthur can’t see him, says, “Yeah.”

“Good. I’ll see you in ten minutes.” He hangs up.

Merlin’s fingers shake as he calls the police. He explains what’s happened, and by the time he’s finished, Arthur’s car is pulling up to the curb. Arthur gets out and strides over to Merlin.

“Did you call the police?” he asks.

Merlin nods. He’s shivering from the cold and the shock. Arthur takes off his jacket and drapes it over Merlin’s shoulders, giving him a gentle pat. “Good,” he says. “Come on.” He guides Merlin to the car and opens the passenger door. Merlin slides in and is immediately enveloped by the warmth of the car’s heating. Arthur gets in on the other side.

“What happened?” There’s a softness to his voice that Merlin doesn’t recognise.

Haltingly, Merlin explains how he’d found his flat in disarray. Arthur listens patiently, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “And did they take anything?” he asks.

His thoughts drift back to the book of magic and his stomach heaves unpleasantly. “They –“

But he’s interrupted by the arrival of the police.

Arthur stays beside him as the police go through the procedures. They check Merlin’s flat, taking photographs as they go and when they ask if anything was taken, Merlin swallows his unease and tells them no. Finally they’re finished.

“Have you got somewhere else to stay tonight?” asks the police officer. “You won’t be able to return until we’ve dusted for prints.”

“Er,” Merlin mumbles. He supposes he could stay with Gwen and Lance…

But then Arthur says, “He can stay with me.”

Satisfied, the police officer nods. “Good. We’ll be in touch tomorrow, Mr Emrys.”

Numbly, Merlin watches them go. It’s only when Arthur touches his arm gently that he blinks and turns away. “Come on, Merlin,” he says, leading him back towards the car.

Merlin gets in.

He says, “I can stay with Gwen and Lance. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

Arthur side eyes him. “There’s plenty of room at my place,” he says. “But if you’d rather stay with them…”

Merlin shakes his head. “No. I mean, thank you.” He rubs his face with his hands. “Fuck.”

Arthur exhales. “Are you all right?” He touches Merlin’s knee softly.

With a sigh, Merlin slumps down into the seat. “I’m freaking out,” he says honestly.

The hand on Merlin’s knee is warm and comforting; Merlin focuses on the feeling, trying to get his heart rate to slow. Arthur seems to understand because he presses a little harder.

“What I don’t understand is… why didn’t they take anything?”

Merlin flinches, the loss of the book heavy in his mind.

Arthur stills, noticing Merlin’s reaction. “ _Did_ they take something?”

“A book,” Merlin supplies.

“A book,” Arthur repeats.

“An important book.”

“Right.” It’s clear Arthur has no idea what Merlin is on about – a good thing, really, although Merlin wishes he could explain properly. He hates hiding this from Arthur; he always has.

“Well, I think you’d better stay with me the next few days,” Arthur says, starting the engine.

“What?” Merlin blinks. “Why?”

Arthur gives him an imperious look. “Because your flat’s in ruins. And what if they weren’t looking for a _thing_ , but a person?”

Merlin still doesn’t understand.

“Oh, honestly, Merlin, you’re not really that thick are you? I’m suggesting they might have been looking for _you_.”

_That_ makes Merlin’s heart stop. “Surely not,” he protests. But even now the idea is taking seed inside his head. All Gaius’ warnings come rushing to the forefront of his thoughts. He’d always said that if Merlin was discovered he’d be targeted by people wanting to control his magic, or people wanting to subdue it. _You have to be careful, Merlin! There are those who would seek to use your powers for ill._

“Don’t worry,” says Arthur, pulling onto the road. “I have an excellent security system. You’ll be safe at my place. And I’m sure the police will figure it out quickly.”

That is indeed comforting, though Merlin has his doubts about the police.

“Thank you, Arthur,” he says sincerely.

Arthur’s hand withdraws from Merlin’s knee so he can grip the steering wheel. The loss is almost painful. “Everything’s going to be all right,” Arthur says, eyes on the road ahead.

Merlin nods and leans his head on the window. He falls asleep at once.


	5. Chapter 5

The Pendragon Manor is just as palatial as Merlin always imagined. He wakes as they pull up to a wrought iron gate, which swings open automatically to let them pass. They roll slowly up a paved driveway and Arthur parks the car in the adjacent garage. Merlin lets himself out and follows Arthur up the pathway to the house. It’s two storeys of fine brickwork, shuttered windows, gargoyles and perfectly trained ivy. It’s the opposite of the house in the woods at Monmouth. Only the downstairs lights are lit, and Merlin gets a glimpse of a huge dining room with gilded chandeliers.

Arthur takes Merlin through the front entrance and they arrive in a wide entrance hall. To the right is a wide, carpeted staircase, and to the left a collection of doors.

“Are you hungry?” Arthur asks.

Merlin shakes his head.

“Upstairs, then,” Arthur says, gesturing to the staircase.

They traipse up the staircase, and as they reach the top Arthur flicks a switch on the wall, flooding the hallway with light. Several doors open out from it and Arthur waves at them all. “You can pick a room, if you like,” he says.

“Which one is yours?” Merlin says. If he hadn’t been so strung out he would never have asked, but he can’t muster the energy to be embarrassed.

Arthut points to the room at the end. “That one,” he says. “It looks out over the park.”

They enter each of the rooms, Arthur flicking on the light so Merlin can see what they’re like. They’re all very much the same – king size bed, cushy armchair, large wardrobe – except one which has an entire wall dedicated to portraits of Arthur’s ancestors. That one makes Merlin shudder. He definitely doesn’t want a whole lot of dead people staring down at him while he sleeps!

In the end he picks the room next to Arthur’s. It has a beautiful view over the city, and Merlin loves the way the lights sparkle in the window. Arthur doesn’t comment on his choice, though he must guess it’s not a coincidence that Merlin picked the room closest to his.

He’s left alone for a few minutes, and when Arthur returns he’s carrying a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. He hands them both to Merlin. “The bathroom’s through there,” he says, waving a hand at a small door Merlin hadn’t even noticed. “Feel free to shower.”

“There’s an en suite?” Merlin asks in wonder.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Oh. Good. I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Merlin rolls his eyes. “This place is ridiculous, Arthur.”

Arthur ignores this. “Good night, Merlin,” he says.

“Night, Arthur.” Merlin watches him go. His stomach is tied up in knots. He’s still anxious about the break in and the loss of his book – and the possibility that someone has discovered what he is – but he’s also overwhelmed by the fact that he’s staying in Arthur’s house, in the room right next to Arthur’s. His heart warms when he thinks of the way Arthur dropped everything when Merlin called.

He’s still wearing Arthur’s jacket. It’s warm around his shoulders, and Merlin can smell the faint scent of Arthur’s aftershave – like cloves and bergamot.

It may still be true that Arthur’s a prat.

But in this moment Merlin is so very grateful for him.

*

In the morning Merlin forgets where he is. The sun is streaming in through the window, but it’s slanted all wrong – it doesn’t come into Merlin’s bedroom like that.

And the bed’s strangely soft, and the blankets silky smooth.

Merlin rubs at his eyes and sits up, belly swooping when he remembers that he’s in Arthur’s house. He stands and looks out the window, and he is greeted with a misty morning view of Kensington Gardens, the sun already high in the sky.

His heart stops.

“Fuck!”

He should have been up hours ago. He rushes to get dressed, throwing on his clothes from yesterday and tripping over his pants in the process. At last he gets them on and he uses the bathroom quickly, brushing his teeth and splashing cold water on his face. He glances at his watch, and swears again when he sees the time: ten thirty. Arthur’s going to kill him.

He throws himself out of the room and down the hallway. In his haste he forgets which door leads to the staircase and he opens one randomly. It’s the portrait room.

He’s about to shut the door and try the next one when one of the pictures catches his eye.

For a moment he’s stunned. Her hair is much neater, hanging in a silky curtain over her shoulders, but there’s no mistaking her. It’s the woman Merlin had seen at Monmouth.

Forgetting his tardiness, Merlin creeps closer. The inscription under the painting reads, _Morgana Pendragon_.

Who is she?

And why is she on this wall, in the presence of the deceased, when she is herself alive?

Merlin’s mind is reeling. He retreats from the room and makes his way downstairs, somewhat numbed by this discovery. Arthur will know who she is.

Arthur! Fuck. Merlin is so dead. He sprints down the rest of the stairs and out the door.

And that’s when he realises that he has no idea how to get out of Arthur’s estate.

He stands stupidly on the threshold for a few minutes, staring at the huge gate and the adjacent fence. It would be madness to try and climb it, and he’d probably set off all of Arthur’s alarms.

Resigning himself to a scolding, Merlin dials Arthur’s number. It rings a few times before he picks up.

“Hello, Merlin,” Arthur says. He doesn’t sound at all peeved, and that makes Merlin nervous.

“Uh,” Merlin stammers. “Hello.”

“Did you find the kitchen?”

Merlin frowns in confusion. “What? Arthur, I’m so sorry I’m late! I slept past my alarm. And I don’t know how to get past your security system!”

“What are you talking about?” Arthur sighs, but it’s one of exasperation, not irritation. “Didn’t you see my note?”

“Note?”

“I left you a note, on the bedside table.”

“Oh.” In his haste to leave Merlin hadn’t even looked. “I didn’t see it.”

“Go back inside,” Arthur says firmly. “I’ll call you later.”

“Wait – but – I need to –“ But he’s already hung up.

Merlin swears. Loudly. A pigeon on the green nearby takes off in fright.

He returns to the bedroom where he finds the note, written on posh cream-coloured notepaper inscribed with the Pendragon family crest.

_Merlin,_

_Take the day off. There’s breakfast in the kitchen (go right at the bottom of the stairs, the first door)._

_If you need to leave the code for the gate is 50776594. Use the side entrance (left of the main gates). But, please, be careful._

_See you later,_

_Arthur_

Merlin sinks down onto the edge of the bed, the note clutched in his hand. The thought of Arthur writing this, of him sneaking into Merlin’s room and quietly placing it on the table, leaving Merlin to his sleep, infuses Merlin with such a sense of happiness that he finds he can’t move for a minute or two.

His head’s an absolute mess, but he’s distracted by the hollow feeling in his stomach; he hadn’t had any dinner last night, and he’s paying for it now. Driven by thoughts of breakfast, Merlin makes his way downstairs and into the kitchen. It’s a poky thing, designed for servants, he supposes. But in it Merlin finds fresh bread and fruit, seven different kinds of cereal, and a jar of vanilla flavoured yoghurt.

He makes himself an enormous breakfast and eats it with relish.

Just as he’s washing up the dishes, his phone rings. It’s the police; they’ve completed their sweep of Merlin’s flat and he’s allowed to return to clean up if he wants.

“Do you have any idea who’s responsible?” Merlin asks.

“We’re working on it,” says the police woman. “We’ll do our best to catch who did it.”

Somewhere in the back if Merlin’s mind is a statistic about unsolved burglaries. It’s a lot, he seems to recall.

“Thank you,” he says.

She hangs up and Merlin finishes the dishes.

Afterwards he returns to the portrait room. He studies Morgana again, then turns his attention to Uther Pendragon, his portrait right beside hers.

Arthur’s dad has an austere countenance that doesn’t make Merlin think of kindness, and knowing now what he does about Arthur’s upbringing, he is hardly surprised. Uther was obviously not the most affectionate of fathers, and had instilled in Arthur a deep sense of unworthiness. It angers Merlin, that this man should have treated Arthur so cruelly when he is obviously _good_. A workaholic, maybe, and a demanding employer, but not unreasonable, and certainly not cruel.

In other words, Arthur is a clotpole, but a nice one.

Merlin stares at the portraits for a while longer. He finds Ygraine, Arthur’s mum, and is surprised by the likeness to Arthur. She is fair and gentle-looking, with eyes that speak of kindness. How sad it is that Arthur never knew her.

He shuts the door behind him on the way out, and then he calls Gaius.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Please note: 
> 
> TW: mentions of suicide (at the very end)

His uncle is predictably distressed.

“You say they took nothing except the compendium?” he asks, a quaver of doubt in his voice.

“Just that,” Merlin confirms. “Gaius, do you think they know what it is? What it means?”

The older man sighs. “I can’t say. We must hope not.”

Merlin takes a breath. “There’s something else,” he says. “I was wondering if you knew anything about Morgana Pendragon.”

Silence.

“Gaius?” Merlin checks his phone to make sure the call hasn’t dropped unexpectedly. It hasn’t. “Are you there?”

“Where did you hear that name?” Gaius sounds almost angry. Or is it fear that tinges his voice with sharpness?

“I’m staying with Arthur,” Merlin explains. “There’s a room with all these portraits, and Morgana is one of them. And…”

“And?”

“And I saw her.”

“My dear boy,” Gaius says, gentling his tone somewhat. “You must be mistaken.”

“I am not,” Merlin protests. “I went with Arthur to Monmouth in Wales. There’s a manor there where Arthur lived as a boy. He goes there every year to see his dad’s grave – well, his false grave. I saw her there; she was standing at the edge of the woods, watching us.”

“Impossible,” Gaius breathes.

“What’s going on Gaius? Who is she?”

But Gaius does not answer his question. “Merlin, if what you say is true, then Arthur could be in danger. I will come to London. You must make sure Arthur is all right. Where is he now?”

“At work. But, Gaius – “

“Go to him,” Gaius orders. “You are the only one with the power to protect him.”

“What!” Merlin’s heart is racing. “But I can’t reveal my magic to him!”

But Gaius has already hung up. Everyone is hanging up on Merlin today, it would seem, and no one is answering any of his questions. He still doesn’t know who Morgana Pendragon is, and why she might be dangerous to Arthur. Frustrated, Merlin stomps back to the bedroom and puts on his boots. Could Arthur really be in danger? The thought fills him with dread.

Hurriedly he makes his way downstairs and outside. He punches the key code into the gate and it opens, swinging to let him pass and shutting behind him of its own accord. Merlin takes the tube, his heart in his throat the entire ride over, and he doesn’t relax until he sees the familiar office building, looking not a brick out of place. He strides up the stairs and throws open the door, startling Arthur at his desk.

“Merlin, what on earth are you doing here? I told you to take the day off.”

Merlin catches his breath. “Who is Morgana Pendragon?” he asks when he’s able.

The effect is immediate. Arthur pales and sinks back into his seat, his eyes wide. “Why are you asking me about her?” he says hoarsely.

“Her picture is in one of your guest bedrooms. And she was at Monmouth. I saw her. Remember, I told you I saw a woman. It was her, Arthur. And just now I spoke to Gaius and he freaked the fuck out and told me to make sure you were all right, and _please_ , for the love of god, will you just tell me who she is?”

Arthur looks like he might be sick. He does not speak for a time, lost in some grim memory, but then he locks eyes with Merlin, brows knitted together. “She is my sister,” he says. “She _was_ my sister,” he clarifies. “But she’s dead.”

“What?” Merlin blinks, not sure he’s heard correctly. “But she can’t be.”

Arthur stands. “She is,” he says, anger infusing his words. “So it can’t be her that you saw.”

“But, I –“

Arthur’s nostrils flare. “Do not speak of her again,” he snarls.

Merlin shuts his mouth.

*

He doesn’t stay at the office, and although he knows it may be foolish, he goes home. He’s angry with Arthur for yelling at him when he won’t even explain why, and he’s pissed at Gaius for being deliberately tight-lipped; they’re both hiding something about this Morgana Pendragon.

So she was Arthur’s sister. Did she grow up with Arthur at Camelot Manor? Merlin wants answers, but no one wants to give them to him.

At home Merlin opens the door cautiously. The flat is just as he remembers – utterly destroyed. He considers fixing it with magic but it would be too hard to explain how everything mended itself overnight. On his way past he picks up the model of the Château de Pierrefonds and mutters a restoration spell; the turrets sprout and regrow and the chip vanishes.

Steeling himself, Merlin enters the living room. He picks his way between the mess, kicking aside broken glass and shredded books until he finds his laptop. This is, mercifully, unbroken, and when he switches it on it whirs to life. Merlin perches on the fraying edge of his once-cosy couch and cradles the laptop on his knees. It takes a moment to boot up, and once it has he opens his internet browser and types _Morgana Pendragon_.

Initially there’s little of interest. Morgana Pendragon is the name of an Australian woman with a large social media presence, and for a while there’s little to see but pictures of her tanned, smiling face.

Even when Merlin adds _London_ to his search there’s not much to see. Although he does find one article from 2015 about Uther Pendragon’s Kensington manor house, which is evidently of historic interest. The article only mentions Morgana in passing – _Uther and his two children, Arthur and Morgana Pendragon, moved into Pendragon Manor in 2006; they relocated from Wales where they were the sole occupants of another manor of note (see Camelot Manor)._

Merlin clicks the link and scans the article that it leads to. It’s mostly historical information about the construction of the manor and its previous occupants; it turns out Camelot Manor was once owned by royalty, and it was built upon the site of an ancient battle. Before the Pendragons the house belonged to another wealthy man – Lord Gorlois – who lived there with his wife and daughter.

Visions of Arthur playing knights in the woods at Monmouth come to Merlin’s mind. Did Morgana play too? Was she the noble queen who bossed Arthur around? Or was she a knight too, galloping alongside Arthur and fending off shared imaginary foes?

At the end of the article is a brief note on the state of the manor today:

_In 2006 the residents of Camelot Manor abruptly abandoned the house and left for London, taking all their serving staff and groundskeepers with them. The manor remains abandoned, and today is a sad example of valuable history left to deteriorate._

Merlin stares at the sentence, reading the words “ _abruptly abandoned_ ” over and over. What did that mean exactly? That they left suddenly and without warning? But why?

Time passes as Merlin scrolls, though he hardly notices. He reads more articles on the history of Camelot Manor – a place of some renown among people with an interest in that kind of thing. Uther Pendragon bought the house when he inherited his father’s wealth, but before that it had belonged to other affluent families, which could be traced back for hundreds of years.

He’s deep in the annals of history when he hears a sound from the hallway outside.

His breath catches in his throat.

There’s another sound: a scuffling, then a rattle of the doorknob. Then the creak of the door as it swings open. Merlin’s muscles coil as he readies to run – or fight – or something, but then a voice calls out, “Merlin?” and footsteps _shush_ over the carpet of Merlin’s entryway.

Arthur appears, his face pale; he stops at once when he sees Merlin. “There you are,” he breathes, like he’s been holding it, like he’s been _worried_.

“Arthur?” Merlin wrinkles his nose in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

The look on Arthur’s face is one of astonishment. “It’s past six,” he says. “I went home. You weren’t there. I didn’t know where you were.”

Oh.

_Oh_.

Merlin blinks and looks at the clock on his computer screen: _6:09_.

“Christ, Merlin,” Arthur continues, anger seeping into his words. “What possessed you to come back here, of all places?”

“The police said I could come back,” Merlin explains. “And I…” He glances down at his screen again and closes it guiltily; he doesn’t want Arthur to know what he’s been looking into. “I lost track of time, that’s all.”

Arthur’s looking around, taking in all the damage. His face is set in a frown and he still seems angry. Merlin glances around too and imagines he is Arthur seeing it for the first time; it really does look like a hurricane ripped its way through Merlin’s flat. There’s glass everywhere, and pieces of ceramic plate that shattered where they hit the wall, and books strewn across the carpet, and little bits of foam from the couch cushions dotted everywhere, like frothy snow.

Suddenly, Arthur sags. He lifts a hand to his face and rubs at the place between his eyes. And then he says the last thing Merlin expects:

“I’m sorry.”

Merlin furrows his brow. “What for?”

Arthur’s hand moves into his hair, which he tugs nervously. “For yelling at you earlier. It wasn’t right. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Oh.” Merlin fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt. “I can’t believe you just apologised.”

Arthur twitches. “ _That’s_ what you have to say?” One of his eyebrows arches dangerously.

“I mean, I don’t think you’ve ever apologised to me before.” His voice is light, teasing, but Arthur takes it to heart, his mouth twisting into a deeper frown. “Hey,” Merlin says, standing so he can reach out and touch the back of Arthur’s hand. “It’s all right, really.”

“Did you really see her?” Arthur asks, changing the subject. “Morgana?”

Merlin senses that Arthur is hoping he’ll say no, but he can’t lie. “I think so,” he says. “Arthur…”

But Arthur cuts him off. “We should go home,” he says, turning back towards the door. “Bring whatever you need.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on?” Merlin asks, something hot and indignant bubbling inside him.

But when Arthur looks around again, the expression on his face is one of such anguish that Merlin recoils. “Please, let’s just go,” he says, voice uncharacteristically hollow.

Nodding, and swallowing the lump in his throat, Merlin gathers up his things and follows Arthur out the door.

*

For the rest of the evening Arthur is quiet. They eat dinner together in the dining room – reheated frozen lasagne – at a table that could seat twenty people. Merlin’s burning questions have fizzled out, replaced with worry for the unusually grim Arthur. After they’ve eaten Arthur takes the plates and washes them and then bids Merlin goodnight, making his way up to his room without further comment.

In the morning things are much the same, but they both go to work, and the moment Arthur enters the office his manner changes; he sheds his sombre mood like one would a jacket. Suddenly he’s ordering Merlin around and pushing paperwork, and meeting with clients as if nothing at all is wrong. Soon enough Merlin finds himself on a coffee run – it’s as though the day is like any other.

Except that although Arthur can expertly hide his inner turmoil, Merlin finds he doesn’t have that particular talent. He feels off-balance, like he’s spinning in circles, getting dizzier and dizzier by the minute. Images keep flashing into his head: the woman at Monmouth, the destruction of his flat, Arthur’s face when Merlin asked him about his sister, the portrait of Morgana in the bedroom at Pendragon Manor. And then there’s the sickly sense that it’s all connected – the burglary, the woman, the unwillingness on both Gaius and Arthur’s parts to discuss Morgana.

Gwen notices that something is amiss immediately. “Is everything all right, Merlin?” she asks as he orders their usual drinks. “It’s not Arthur again, is it?” She furrows her brows. “He shouldn’t treat you the way he does.”

But Merlin shakes his head. “No, it’s not Arthur. Well, it _is_. Actually he’s been very nice lately.”

Gwen shoots him a confused look at she steams the milk for Arthur’s flat white. “That’s good?”

He nods. Then a thought occurs to him. “Gwen, did you know Arthur before his dad died?”

“Oh.” Gwen’s eyes widen. “Yes. I’ve known Arthur ever since he moved here. Didn’t you know I worked in the house as a maid? I worked there until his father died, but Arthur didn’t want any servants so we all had to find new jobs.”

This is a surprise to Merlin. “But then you must have known Morgana too!” he says quickly.

Abruptly, Gwen goes still, the milk forgotten. She looks at Merlin with shock that quickly turns to sadness. “Morgana,” she breathes, “Yes, she…” Gwen has to put the jug down so she can cover her face for a moment. “It was so awful, what happened.”

Merlin’s heart begins to race. “What _did_ happen?” he asks.

“You don’t know?” Gwen blinks, her eyes slightly wet. “Morgana was such a lonely girl… I think I was her only company most days. And with the way Uther treated her, it’s no wonder she did what she did.” Gwen presses her thumb to the corner of her eye. “You really don’t know?”

He shakes his head. “Arthur wouldn’t tell me.”

Gwen’s smile is touched with grief. “I’m not surprised; I think he’s always blamed himself. After Uther’s death Morgana was inconsolable...” She takes a deep breath. “She killed herself.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings x

Afterwards, Merlin has to go and sit on a bench outside and gather himself together. He understands now why Arthur reacted in the way that he did to Merlin’s questions about Morgana – with anger, and sullen sadness – it is the remnants of grief for the loss of his sister and father in one fell swoop. The collapse of his entire family, and the feelings of guilt that would surely have followed.

Arthur’s past is grim indeed. Beneath the veneer of wealth and luxury is a well of pain.

But Merlin can’t help but feel there’s still more to the story. Gwen had said that Uther treated Morgana badly, and the way she spoke suggested that Morgana was almost a prisoner in her home, unable to meet and befriend others. Did Uther lock her away for some reason? And was that related to why they had left Camelot Manor so abruptly?

And then there’s the matter of Morgana’s suicide.

It must have been faked. For Morgana is alive. Merlin had seen her for himself.

And what did Gaius know? He had been alarmed to hear that Merlin had seen Morgana – the way he’d spoken, it was as if he had been afraid. But if Morgana is truly alive, then surely it would be a cause for celebration. Arthur would have his sister back, after all.

He’s so distracted by his own thoughts he doesn’t notice the black Mazda until it’s pulled up in front of him. A woman gets out of the driver’s seat; she has blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, sharp cheekbones and dark eye shadow. Her outfit is black – black boots, black leggings, and a tight black top. Merlin shifts uneasily as she comes to stand in front of him.

“Hello, Merlin,” she says coolly.

Merlin flinches at the use of his name. _This is bad_ , he thinks. This is definitely bad.

“Who are you?” he asks carefully.

“You may call me Morgause,” she says. “Come.” She opens the passenger door and gestures for Merlin to get inside.

He doesn’t move. “I’m not going with you,” he says. “What do you want?”

Morgause sneers. Her hand makes the shape of a claw and Merlin is suddenly gasping for breath, his windpipe crushed in an invisible iron grip. “Because if you do not,” she says in a measured tone, “I will kill you right here.”

Merlin collapses to his knees; he scrabbles ineffectually at his throat. Eventually he nods and holds his hand up in surrender. The pressure is gone instantly and he heaves for air, his lungs contracting painfully.

“Quickly now,” Morgause says, ushering him into the vehicle. “She will be so pleased to see you.”

Merlin’s whole body is cold and he shivers as she shuts the door, locking him in. He’s being kidnapped, he realises. And this woman just used magic on him.

That means he’s not alone. There are others out there like him.

And apparently they want to kill him.

*

They drive for an hour at least. A few minutes into the journey Morgause mutters something under her breath and Merlin’s vision goes black. A blindfolding spell. It’s disorienting to say the least; he can’t stop rubbing at his eyes, and he doesn’t know any spells that will counteract the blindness.

He really hopes it isn’t permanent.

Eventually he feels the car slow and come to a stop. Keys jangle as Morgause gets out of the car; he feels the rush of cold air as she opens the door on his side, then rough hands pulling him upright. He can’t see anything, and he’s too shocked to even consider aiming a kick. Besides, where would he run to, even if he got away?

She drags him over uneven ground – gravel, maybe – and then up some steps. He trips, but she yanks him upright and shoves him forward again.

“Where are we?” Merlin gasps. “What do you want with me?”

“Shh,” Morgause croons. “You will understand soon enough.”

They enter a building; Merlin can tell simply by the way the sounds of their footsteps echo off the walls. They turn a few corners and then Morgause wrenches Merlin’s arm downwards and he falls to his knees with a cry.

“Well, well,” says a woman’s voice from in front of him. “You’ve found him.”

“Yes,” says Morgause, still gripping Merlin’s arm. “Poor thing didn’t even put up a fight.”

“What good manners you must have,” says the other woman. Merlin can hear her getting closer, then her hand on his chin. “This will be too easy.” She sounds almost gleeful.

“Who are you?” he spits. “Did you break into my flat?”

A quiet chuckle passes between the two women. “Oh, yes,” says the stranger. “It was most illuminating.”

“Why are you doing this?” He’s shaking now, from adrenaline and fear.

“All in good time,” says the woman. “Just know that you have Arthur to thank.”

“Arthur?” Merlin lifts his head, though his vision is still dark.

Another soft laugh. “Yes. Haven’t you guessed who I am?

Merlin had guessed. “Morgana,” he says grimly. “Morgana Pendragon.”

“Very good.” Morgana’s fingers close around Merlin’s shoulders, claw-like and cold. “Know this, Merlin Emrys,” she breathes into his ear. “I am no friend to Arthur Pendragon; I have suffered by him, and _you_ are going to help me make things right.” She pushes him and he goes sprawling, his cheek hitting the cold wooden floor; he cries out in shock, though he’s not injured.

“I will not help you hurt him,” he says, struggling upright again. “I won’t.”

Morgana snorts. “You have no choice in the matter.” Some silent gesture must pass between the two women because Morgause grabs him again and leads him away. They descend down a flight of stairs, Merlin stepping cautiously to avoid falling. At the bottom Merlin can sense the dampness of the place, the cold seeping in through his clothes and making him shiver even harder.

Morgause leaves him there, and she must see no reason to remove his magical blindfold for he remains in the dark. Though it is his guess that the room he’s in now is as dark as any blindness. Once he senses that she’s gone he gets up; it’s a mercy that they haven’t tied his hands, though that suggests they do not expect him to be able to escape.

Indeed, when he feels his way around the walls it is only rough brick that touches his palms, and a wooden door with no doorknob. He pushes at it but it doesn’t budge – locked from the other side he assumes. He could unlock it with a spell, but then where would he go after that? Tired and frightened, Merlin sinks down to the floor and leans against the wall.

His thoughts stray to Arthur.

He was only meant to be gone ten minutes; Arthur will surely be worried. He’ll be looking for him, Merlin thinks hopefully. And then the thought turns to acid – what if that’s what Morgana wants? What if they’re trying to lure Arthur into a trap?

No. Merlin won’t let Arthur get hurt. He has to escape.

Merlin has magic, for pity’s sake. He can figure something out.

He needs his vision back.

Merlin knows a few words of Anglo-Saxon. Perhaps he can invent a spell to restore his eyesight like he’d done to heat his flat?

He tries a few variations, and then a few more.

Nothing works.

Eventually his eyelids droop. He’s so tired… despite the cold, hard floor it’s so easy to close his eyes, to fall into sleep’s warm embrace.

He imagines Arthur’s arm encircling him, Arthur’s gentle voice in his ear:

“Everything will be all right,” says the illusory Arthur. “Rest, Merlin. Everything will be fine.”

*

An indeterminable amount of time later, he wakes.

It’s the silence he notices first. There’s no sound – no cars, no birds, no wind, no voices – it’s like the world’s ended and he’s the last person alive.

Is it magic?

He’s also cold. And hungry. And he needs to use the bathroom.

All in all it’s a very uncomfortable experience.

And then the door rattles and scrapes and someone enters the room.

“Good morning,” says Morgause. “Come with me.”

Merlin doesn’t bother not obeying. He gets to his feet. “Can I use the bathroom?” he asks.

She snorts, but she leads him to a bathroom anyway. Afterwards she marches him into another room. The same one as yesterday, he assumes. He hears the whisper of pages turning in a book, and then Morgana’s voice, clear and cold:

“So you’re a student of magic, I see.”

She has the book.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says. Better to play dumb, he thinks. Magic is his only defence. If they know what he is capable of, then they can ward against it. But if he can catch them by surprise… he may have a chance.

“I think you do,” Morgana says. There’s a thumping sound, like a heavy book being closed. “You had a book of magic in your possession.”

Merlin shakes his head. “It’s not real,” he says, attempting to sound earnest. “Just a sort of gimmick. My uncle gave it to me for my birthday. Magic isn’t – I didn’t know magic was real.”

“Your uncle Gaius?” Morgana guesses.

His body goes still. “How did you know?”

“Oh, now this _is_ interesting,” she purrs. “You really don’t have magic?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No. I swear.”

“Hm. That does explain why it was so easy for Morgause to capture you. And it will certainly make our plans simpler. Although if you _did_ have magic…” her voice trails off, growing wistful. “Then perhaps I could have persuaded you to join forces. Sorcerers like us are few and far between these days.”

“He might be hiding it,” Morgause pipes up.

There’s a beat of silence. Then Morgana speaks again. “We will do a simple test. Merlin, if you would, please speak after me: _Forbærne_.

Somewhere to Merlin’s left a fire bursts into life; he can feel the heat of it on his cheek.

Merlin knows this spell. He’s cast it many times at his mum’s house to light her fire. And luckily for Merlin, his magic requires intent. He only needs to say the word without intention, and the spell will not take.

Slowly, as if the word is foreign on his tongue, Merlin utters, “ _Forbærne_.”

Nothing happens.

“A pity,” says Morgana. “But you will mean just as much to Arthur whether you are a sorcerer or not. In fact, I expect he will be happy you are not one. He did not love that about _me_ , after all.”

This surprises Merlin, but he stifles his gasp. If Arthur knew about Morgana’s powers, then he also knows that magic exists. Merlin could have told him that he has magic and Arthur would have understood. All this time he’s been hiding his powers… and for what?

And that brings him to another questions.

“How do you know Gaius?” Merlin asks.

“Ah.” Morgana’s boots pace across the floor; they sound like hooves and for a moment Merlin has a vision of her as a demon: her feet cloven, her head wreathed in flames. “There’s so much you do not know,” she says. “Has Arthur truly told you nothing? I thought he cared for you.”

“He told me you’re his sister,” Merlin says. “And Arthur doesn’t care for me that much. I’m his secretary, that’s all.”

Morgana’s laugh is high and cold. “Don’t sell yourself short, Merlin. Arthur cares for you a great deal. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“You’ve been watching us?”

“One need only observe you for a moment to see that it is true.”

This Merlin finds hard to believe. “I still don’t understand why you’ve kidnapped me,” he says angrily. “What use am I to you?”

He feels Morgana’s presence; she looms over him like an icy shadow. “I have kidnapped you, Merlin, because Arthur will want you back. A simple plan, to be sure, but one that will get results.”

“Why do you hate Arthur so much?”

Morgana’s breath coasts over his ear; he can feel her hatred like a living being, like a physical presence in the room.

“I hate him,” she says, “Because he let Uther chain me up and silence me like a dog. He stood by while I withered away, and he did _nothing_. That is why I hate Arthur Pendragon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: kidnapping


	8. Chapter 8

Merlin’s shunted back into his prison cell. He’s handed something wrapped in plastic – a sandwich. He eats it without a second thought, and only afterwards does it occur to him that it could have been poisoned.

He thinks about Morgana’s words – what she said about Arthur. All the pieces are starting to fit together.

He’s also more determined than ever to escape.

An idea had come to him during the test Morgana had devised to uncover his magic. If, as Merlin now believed, intent is the most important part of casting magic, then that means he doesn’t need a spell to restore his eyesight.

After some time has passed he lifts his hand to his eyes, covering them both, and then he focuses his mind on what he wants: the ability to see.

There’s no glimmer of light, no warmth, no sign of any change.

But when Merlin removes his hand, he knows it’s worked. Where once there had been only a black void there are now shadows. Shapes and shades of grey and black loom before him – he can see the walls, the floor, and the faintest sliver of light coming from behind the door.

For a minute he allows himself to feel the elation of achieving something he had once thought impossible.

Then he attends to the door.

He holds out his hand and the bolt slides free, letting the door slide ajar.

On the other side is a staircase that leads to a higher floor, towards a dim light. Merlin creeps upwards, conscious of any noises he may make. As he gets to the landing at the top he hears voices, murmuring from beyond a closed door. He sits at the top of the staircase, listening.

“ – think this is really a good idea?” That sounds like Morgana.

“Yes, sister, this will work. Arthur will do anything for that pathetic mortal. And then we’ll have what we both want.” Morgause.

“But Arthur’s my brother… I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Shh. Arthur betrayed you, remember? He let your father lock you up. He never helped you.”

“Arthur… He was just a boy… Uther told him –“

“Hush, sister. Rest now.” There’s a sound like water dripping onto the floor. Or blood, Merlin thinks with a shudder. “I’m going to put this under your pillow. It will make you feel better.”

A whimper.

Merlin crawls closer. There’s a door that’s ajar and that’s where the voices are coming from. He needs to see what she’s putting under the pillow… he needs to know what it is.

He peers around the doorway.

Morgause is kneeling beside a bed in which Morgana is lying. Morgana looks pale and anguished, her face creased into a frown. As Merlin watches, Morgause places something black and muddy looking under her pillow. It smears the sheets with a dark substance as she slides it into place. “There,” she says gently. “You’ll be back to normal in no time.”

Morgana lets out a troubled breath, and then she falls asleep, her body relaxing into the bed.

Suddenly, Merlin’s foot slips on the wooden floor. He grabs the frame of the door to steady himself, and Morgause whips her head around, her eyes boring into him. “You,” she hisses. “I knew you were lying.”

Merlin turns and runs, but Morgause is fast. Before Merlin knows what’s happening he feels his feet fly out from underneath him. He hurtles headlong into the wall, and his vision returns to darkness.

*

He comes to with a throbbing in his head so painful he feels nauseous. This time he’s shackled, his hands tied behind his back, his ankles locked together with rope. Mercifully the blinding spell hasn’t been reapplied. He can still see the room around him – a wide, high ceilinged space with blacked out windows and old timber floorboards.

Morgause is lounging on a chair nearby, a dagger resting in her palm.

“I wouldn’t try anything, if I were you,” she says, twirling the weapon in a threatening manner.

Merlin feels a wave of fury engulf him. “Where’s Morgana?” he demands. “What have you done to her?”

The sorcerer sneers. “Don’t worry about her. I look after her, you know. I was there for her when no one else was. She would have wasted away to nothing if I hadn’t shown her what she could do, who she could be.”

“You’re manipulating her for your own gain,” Merlin spits.

Morgause rises from her seat and walks towards Merlin. She holds the tip of the dagger to his throat. “What I do, I do for her,” she says. “Uther Pendragon would have left her to rot, but I set her free. And now I’m going to give her everything she deserves.” Her mouth quirks into a cunning smile.

Merlin can see right through her; she wants something for herself. “Don’t pretend you’re doing this for selfless reasons,” he growls. “You want something.”

“It’s true,” she concedes with a sigh, withdrawing the dagger and returning to her seat. “Uther Pendragon made many enemies in his lifetime. When I was a girl I had a magical childhood; I lived with my family in a castle in the woods. We wanted for nothing, and we were happy. And then Uther Pendragon came along; he cheated my father out of his wealth and stole our house.”

“Camelot Manor,” Merlin breathes. “You’re Lord Gorlois’ daughter.”

Morgause snarls. “That’s right. We were forced out and my family lost everything. We had to beg for scraps from my father’s friends, like _dogs_.”

“So it’s revenge you want.”

“No,” Morgause growls. “I want _justice_.”

*

After his attempted escape Morgause doesn’t take any chances. She leaves him tied up at all times, and doesn’t take her eyes off him for even a moment. Hopes of escaping soon dwindle down to nothing as Merlin realises how terrifyingly intent she is on her plot.

Morgana is absent for most of the day – sleeping, Merlin assumes. When she does appear, any trace of doubt has disappeared from her face and she regards Merlin with disdain. Morgause is deferent, acting as though Morgana is the one in charge, though Merlin knows the truth.

If he could just get through to Morgana… maybe she would listen to reason.

“Sister,” Morgause says as Morgana enters the room. “You have slept well, I see.”

“Thanks to you.” says Morgana.

It’s the first time since Monmouth that Merlin’s seen Morgana in person. She is undeniably beautiful, with sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes, but her hair is a wild mess, her chic clothes in disarray. It is the look of a madwoman: the result of Morgause’s enchantments.

Morgause points the dagger at Merlin. “This little brat tried to escape. Turns out he’s a magic user after all.”

Morgana raises an eyebrow. “Indeed?” Her lips curl into a sneer. “That certainly makes things interesting. I suppose Gaius taught you?”

Merlin narrows his eyes. “Gaius? Of course not,”

She frowns. “Then who was your teacher?”

“No one,” Merlin says honestly.

But it’s clear Morgana does not believe him. “Liar,” she spits. “But oh, Arthur will hate this. There’s nothing he despises more than magic. To learn that his precious boy toy is a sorcerer.” She laughs gaily. “I can’t wait to see his face.”

Merlin’s heart sinks.

“Now, now,” Morgana croons. “We won’t tell him until after the exchange, of course. We wouldn’t want it ruining our deal.

“Exchange?”

Morgana inclines her head. “Arthur will be here in just a few short hours. It has all been arranged. All we need to do now is wait.”

And that is what they do. It is, as a matter of fact, rather boring. Though as each hour passes Merlin’s uneasiness grows. Arthur will be walking straight into a trap, and there’s nothing Merlin can do about it.

All sounds beyond the house have been silenced by some spell, but soon there are noises from beyond the room they’re in: the sounds of doors opening, of boots on a hardwood floor. An overwhelming sense of uselessness grips Merlin as Arthur walks into the hands of his enemies.

“Your prince has arrived,” says Morgana.

Arthur appears in the doorway, pale-faced and dishevelled. His eyes leap to Merlin as soon as he enters the room and his posture visibly slackens.

“Arthur!” Merlin calls. “Don’t – “

But Morgause waves her hand and mutters something, and Merlin’s voice vanishes. He strains forward, desperate to tell Arthur what he’s learned about Morgause, about Morgana, but his bonds hold him back, and soon Morgause is standing over him, the dagger pressed to his throat. He stops, panting.

Arthur’s face goes white. “Don’t hurt him,” he says.

Morgana laughs. It’s even more terrible knowing that she is under an enchantment. “Don’t worry, dear brother, no harm will come to your precious Merlin as long as you have what we asked for.”

“I have it,” Arthur says grimly. He produces a stack of papers from a bag at his hip. “Everything is here. It’s yours, Morgana. Now let him go.”

“We must verify that everything is in order first,” she says. “Show me.”

But Arthur has gone still, his gaze on Merlin, eyes locked on the dagger at his throat. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “Morgana, this isn’t like you. You don’t need to do this; I’ll give you half of everything, you can come home. Just let Merlin go.”

“How kind,” Morgana hisses. “Your generosity knows no bounds, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur looks close to tears. “Please, Morgana. I know I wasn’t a good brother to you. I should have helped you. I’m sorry. I thought you had died, Gana, I thought…”

Merlin can sense the moment Morgana wavers. Her rigid posture softens for just a moment.

And then Morgause speaks up. “Don’t listen to him, sister,” she says sharply. “He betrayed you, remember?”

Morgana straightens her spine.

“Sister?” Arthur asks, eyes wide with surprise.

“Yes, Arthur,” Morgana says. “Uther lied to both of us. My mother was not Ygraine but another woman: Lord Gorlois’ wife – Morgause’s mother. Uther was truly depraved. Now show me the papers. I wish to ensure everything is at it should be.”

Arthur holds the papers for her to see, but does not relinquish his hold. “Do what you must,” he says. “Your magic will surely show you that they are genuine.”

“Indeed.” Morgana holds her hand over the papers and mutters an incantation. A blue flame issues from her palm, engulfing the documents. Arthur flinches but does not let them go. After a few seconds the flames burn with a bright green hue and Morgana withdraws her hand, seemingly satisfied. “Excellent,” she says.

“Everything I own now belongs to you, Morgana. The Pendragon Manor, Camelot, my fortune. Now you must let Merlin go.”

Merlin freezes in astonishment. “No,” he tries to say, but he cannot make a sound. He struggles against his bonds, but Morgause digs her dagger into his neck and Merlin feels the sharp blade prick his skin.

_No. Arthur can’t do this. No no no!_

“You must let Merlin go,” Arthur says, sounding panicked. “I will not hand these over until he is free. Honour our agreement, Morgana.”

Morgana waves her hand, and Morgause shoves Merlin forward until he is level with Morgana. “Enjoy your plaything,” she sneers, and Morgause pushes Merlin forward.

Morgana snatches the documents from Arthur’s hands.

Arthur lets them go and doesn’t spare them another glance; he kneels down and pulls Merlin into his arms. Merlin’s head crashes into Arthur’s shoulder.

“Oh,” Morgana adds as her and Morgause are about to leave. “Did I mention that your little pet is a sorcerer?” She grins. “How happy you two will be together!”

Arthur freezes, his arms locked around Merlin.

Merlin lets out a silent sob.

Morgana’s laughter lingers in the air, like smog over the London skyline.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone following this silly little story of mine. I love all your wonderful comments even if I don't manage to reply to them all. I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)

“Are you all right?” Arthur asks once the witches have left. “Did they hurt you?” He pulls back so he can look at Merlin, his eyes alighting on the bruise on Merlin’s forehead from when Morgause threw him against a wall. Hissing with rage, he touches his fingers to the edge of it, then drops his gaze to Merlin’s. “Merlin? Say something.”

Merlin tries. He opens his mouth but no words come out. Arthur frowns. “Did they do something to your voice?”

Merlin nods.

Arthur’s expression hardens. “Can you – can you undo it?”

He nods again, twisting his arms to show Arthur that he needs his hands. Arthur seems to understand, for he pulls out a pocketknife and uses it to cut Merlin’s bonds. His hands free, Merlin lifts them to his mouth and shuts his eyes, focusing his magic. When he drops his arms he can speak again.

But he’s stopped by the look on Arthur’s face.

Fear. Revulsion.

“Arthur,” he croaks. “Arthur, I –“

“You have magic,” Arthur breathes. “You – all this time – you lied to me.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, Arthur. _Please_. I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell anyone. Gaius made me promise. He said if anyone knew I would be in danger… that people would come for me. I wanted to tell you, but I thought you wouldn’t believe me. Arthur…”

“Gaius knew?” Arthur says, eyes widening. “Christ.” He puts some distance between them and Merlin’s heart shatters.

Everything is such a mess.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Merlin says at last. “You shouldn’t have given up everything.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Arthur snaps. “They would have killed you.”

Tears prickle in Merlin’s eyes again. “But your house… your inheritance…”

Arthur’s expression hardens. “Means nothing,” he says. “Your life is worth more than all of that combined.”

This pronouncement makes Merlin’s chest go painfully tight. “You must regret that now,” he murmurs, hanging his head. “Morgana said you hate magic.”

Arthur is silent for a moment, and then his fingers touch Merlin’s chin gently, lifting it up. “My father hated magic,” Arthur corrects. “For a long time I thought he was right. But… I know now he was wrong. Merlin –” Arthur cuts himself off, a lost look on his face. “I’m just glad I have you back.”

The tears really do fall, then, and Arthur closes the distance between them, pulling Merlin into his arms. “It’s all right,” he says softly. “You’re safe.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says when he can manage to speak again. “Morgana’s enchanted.”

Arthur freezes. “What?”

“It’s not Morgana who wants your estate. It’s Morgause. She’s been manipulating Morgana with some sort of spell… I saw her doing it. Morgana doesn’t want to hurt you, but she’s not in control. Morgause wants revenge against your family because Uther did something that made them lose everything they had. You know they used to live at Camelot Manor before you?”

Arthur’s fist tightens around Merlin’s shirt. “Is there no end to my father’s sins?” he says hoarsely.

“We have to help Morgana,” Merlin says, drying his eyes with the back of his hand. “Morgause will drive her to insanity.”

They rise together, Arthur steadying Merlin with a firm hand. “We will help her,” he says. “But first thing’s first, we need to get you out of here.”

*

They drive to a hotel.

With a painful stab Merlin realises it’s because Arthur’s house now belongs to Morgana.

Gaius is waiting for them in the lobby. He stands when he sees them, his face pinched with distress. “Merlin,” he breathes. “Are you all right, my boy?”

Merlin nods and accepts Gaius’ hug with a smile. “I’m all right,” he says. “Just glad to be out of there.”

Arthur put his hand on the small of Merlin’s back, a warm and reassuring touch. “Gaius, there’s something we need to discuss. Merlin says that Morgana is enchanted.”

“It’s true,” Merlin confirms.

Gaius frowns worriedly. “That is grave news indeed.”

Merlin feels himself fading – the events of the past two days catching up with him. Arthur moves closer, tucking Merlin against his side so he can lean into him. A couple of days ago Merlin would have been over the moon to be so close to Arthur, to be held by him in this way, but right now he’s too exhausted to care.

“You should get some rest,” Gaius says.

But, as much as Merlin would like to pass out right then and there, he needs answers. He needs the full picture. Shaking his head, he says. “First you have to tell me everything, from the beginning. You’ve been hiding things from me this whole time.”

Arthur and Gaius exchange a glance.

“Very well,” says Gaius.

They take the lift to their room; it’s a nice hotel, with modern fixtures, comfortable chairs and inviting bed linen. But before Merlin curls up under some nice, warm covers, they sit down on the available chairs. Merlin tucks himself into an armchair, missing Arthur’s touch, but grateful to be somewhere safe and comfortable.

It’s Arthur who begins.

“When we were children Morgana, my father and I lived at Camelot Manor together. We were young when we first moved there, and we loved it. I already told you how we played knights in the surrounding forest. But when we became teenagers Morgana began to show signs of sorcery. At first we didn’t understand it – fires would start in her room without explanation, glass would shatter, doors would open and slam – I thought we were being haunted. My father thought Morgana was acting out. Morgana knew the truth.

“Bear in mind that we knew nothing of magic at the time. We were like anyone else – we thought it was a fairy tale. But one day my father witnessed Morgana set her curtains alight. It was an accident, but my father was terrified. He told her she had to control herself, to suppress her magic.

“But she could not. She did not know how. She was just as afraid as he was. A year passed and I turned fifteen. Then one day Morgana was angry – she had wanted to go to a party with her friends but my father had forbidden it. She flew into a rage and her magic went off. My father’s car bore the brunt of her outburst; it exploded as if a bomb had been set inside it.”

Arthur pauses, his expression cloudy. “By then my father had heard of someone who might be able to help Morgana.” He glances at Gaius, who smiles wanly. “That was Gaius. At the time he lived in London, so we all moved there pretty much immediately.”

“I had studied magic myself, many years ago,” Gaius explains, picking up the story. “I thought I might be able to help. But this was before I knew you, Merlin. Before I understood the true possibilities of magic.”

Merlin feels Arthur’s eyes on him, his gaze curious.

“I worked with Morgana for a time, and she did begin to improve. Her magical outbursts became fewer, and less potent. But –“ Gaius sighs. “Uther was afraid of her. And perhaps more importantly, he was afraid of what would happen if the truth were to come out. He confined Morgana to the manor; she grew lonely, and – I think – depressed.

“Some months before Uther’s death she began to lash out again. By this time she had learned to control her magic somewhat – and she used it to express her frustration. Knowing what we do now, I expect Morgause had already made contact with her at this point. I see no other way to explain what happened after.”

Gaius pauses, his frown deepening. “On the evening of Uther’s death, he and Morgana had an argument. Arthur and I were both present. Morgana told Uther that she would not let him keep her confined any longer. Uther threatened to write her out of her inheritance.”

Merlin glances at Arthur. He’s hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees, his face hidden in his hands.

“Morgana was furious. She screamed at Uther, and her rage unleashed her magic. Arthur and I were both hit, but Uther was dealt the worst of it. He was thrown against the wall and struck his head on the corner of the dresser. He died instantly.”

Merlin sucks in a breath. “She killed him,” he says. Suddenly he understands why Arthur never wanted to speak about Morgana.

Gaius nods. “Afterwards she advanced on us. We thought she was going to kill us. She told us we had betrayed her, that we should pay for what we had done.” Gaius lowers his eyes, shame casting a shadow over him. “But then she seemed to return to herself for a moment. She grew fearful, and when she saw what she had done to Uther she was shocked. And then she ran. Magic must have aided her for we could not catch up to her, and once she left the manor we lost her. They found her body in the Thames the next day.”

Arthur makes a sound, half way between a sob and a groan. Merlin feels an aching need to hold him close.

“But it wasn’t her,” Merlin says. “Morgana didn’t die.”

“No,” Giaus agrees. “It must have been Morgause’s magic that enchanted a body to look like Morgana’s.”

“And Morgause poisoned Morgana’s thoughts. She drove her to kill Uther.”

Gaius nods. “Morgana had always been a headstrong child, but she never lacked in compassion. Uther’s treatment of her was appalling, but I do not believe she would ever have killed him if she had been in her right mind.”

“I should have helped her,” Arthur says, lowering his hands so he can stare glumly at the floor. “I let my father bully her when I should have stood up for her. I should have done _something_.”

Gaius shakes his head and pats Arthur’s shoulder gently. “Arthur, you are not to blame. You were a child for most of it. And for as long as your father was alive he bullied you and made sure you would not disobey him. You were frightened to death of him. No, it is I who is to blame. I saw what was happening and I did nothing, for I was frightened too. But that is no excuse for an old man like me.” Gaius sighs. “I am sorry, Arthur. I failed you and Morgana both.”

“We can make this right,” Merlin says. “Morgana is alive. We can still help her.”

Arthur nods, tearing his gaze from the floor and looking at Merlin instead. There’s a hardness to his eyes that makes Merlin’s heart flutter. “You’re right,” he says. “We’ll find Morgana. We’ll set things right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Repeat after me: Morgana is kind, Morgana is smart, Morgana is important.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pure self-indulgent fluff. Enjoy!

Later that night, Merlin lies awake in his bed. It’s luxurious, with a cloud-like mattress and soft cotton sheets – but he can’t stop thinking about a cold, damp cell, and the prick of a knife at his throat.

Trauma, the rational part of his brain helpfully supplies. But self-awareness doesn’t soothe the tension in his limbs, or erase the images that swoop into his head the moment he shuts his eyes.

He doesn’t want to be alone.

Quietly, he gets out of bed and pads into the hallway. Arthur is sleeping in the adjacent room.

Merlin stands there for a full five minutes before he gather the courage to knock on the door.

There’s a shuffling noise, a sound like a lamp being switched on, and then the door is opened just a crack. “Merlin?” says a sleep-roughed voice.

The door opens wider, revealing Arthur in a set of red button-up pyjamas that momentarily distract Merlin from everything bad in the world. But Arthur is staring at him anxiously, waiting for him to explain himself.

Merlin grimaces. “Hi,” he says sheepishly.

“Hi,” Arthur replies. “Everything all right?”

“Er, well.” Merlin wants to slap himself. What on earth is he thinking, coming to Arthur’s room in the middle of the night. They’re not boyfriends, their barely even friends!

But then Arthur’s face goes all soft at the mouth and he smiles kindly. “Do you want to come in?”

“Would that – would that be ok?”

Arthur steps aside to let Merlin in and shuts the door behind him. Merlin stands in the middle of the room, an unhappy mixture of dazed, embarrassed and exposed.

But Arthur is just as good in a crisis as he’s ever been. He puts his hand on Merlin’s back and guides him towards the bed, gently pushing him down upon it. Then he goes around to the other side and gets in beside Merlin. His hands are gentle as he pulls Merlin into an embrace, holding him against the firm plane of his chest.

Merlin melts into it, even though he’s overwhelmed by the feeling of receiving something he’s been craving for so long. He presses his nose to Arthur’s chest and inhales deeply; Arthur smells like the cedar from the hotel soap. He breathes out, and Arthur’s hand strokes a long, slow curve over his spine.

This isn’t platonic. This is… new territory. But it’s comforting, and right now Merlin needs comfort; he suspects Arthur does too.

“Gaius is right, you know,” Merlin murmurs. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

Arthur lets out a breath. “I’m not so sure,” he says. “But thank you for saying that. And I’m sorry I never told you about Morgana.”

“Well, I’m sorry I never told you about my magic,” Merlin counters.

He can feel Arthur’s smile against the top of his head. “I guess we’re even,” Arthur says.

“I guess so.”

They lapse into silence. At some point they end up under the covers, lying properly on the bed, still holding each other close. They fall asleep like that, hands and legs entwined.

*

As he wakes the first thing that crosses Merlin’s mind is that he feels safe.

Ordinarily this wouldn’t be anything unusual. Merlin has felt safe for most of his life. But since being kidnapped by a vengeful sorcerer he’s been on edge, his body tense with the aftershocks of the experience.

So it’s a relief to feel so relaxed. Like taking a bath at the end of a long day.

He blinks awake slowly, though the light is soft on his eyes. For a while he cannot make sense of what he’s seeing: a swatch of red fabric, a sliver of lightly tanned skin, and a tuft of blond hair.

Arthur, he realises with a start.

Arthur is sleeping on his stomach, his face turned away from Merlin, his hand shoved underneath the pillow.

And Merlin is wrapped around him like an octopus: his arm over Arthur’s back, his foot hooked around Arthur’s ankle, his chest pressed to Arthur’s side.

It’s blissfully warm, and – most pleasingly – safe.

“Arthur?” Merlin mumbles, gently extracting himself from his hold on the other man.

Arthur stirs, his body shifting as he emerges from his slumber. With a questioning _hm_? Arthur turns his head and looks at Merlin.

Merlin’s never seen him like this – all tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed. He looks gorgeous, and Merlin feels a strong urge to snuggle back into Arthur’s side and soak in the moment for as long as he can.

“Morning,” Merlin says, allowing himself a sheepish grin.

It’s as though Arthur hasn’t really quite woken up yet, for he blinks with such exaggerated slowness that Merlin half expects him to fall back asleep. But then he extracts his arm from beneath the pillow and lifts his hand to Merlin’s face, stroking his cheek tenderly.

Merlin’s breath catches in his throat.

Arthur’s hand comes to a stop on Merlin’s neck, his palm a gentle pressure on Merlin’s pulse point, his fingers lingering on Merlin’s jaw. “I was dreaming,” Arthur says hoarsely. His index finger touches Merlin’s lip.

The entire world has stopped breathing. Or is it just Merlin?

Then Arthur leans in, hovering with his face inches from Merlin’s. “Arthur,” Merlin breathes, hardly daring to move in case the spell is broken.

But it is not a spell that makes Arthur sway forward and capture Merlin’s mouth in a kiss.

Time stops. The world fades away until all that’s left is Arthur’s mouth upon his, Arthur’s hand on Merlin’s neck. Arthur’s lips are smooth and supple, his kiss feather light; when he tries to pull away Merlin gives chase, tasting the seam of Arthur’s lips, pleading for _more_.

Arthur makes a needy sound in the back of his throat, his lips parting with a breath. Merlin sucks at Arthur’s bottom lip and is rewarded with a startled gasp. Fingers slide into Merlin’s hair and pull him closer, and Arthur’s tongue darts into Merlin’s mouth, licking at the line of his teeth; Merlin moans, curling his own tongue around Arthur’s.

For a long time there is only the spit-slicked slide of their mouths together, the puffs of shared breath, the clinging hands of two people who desperately need each other.

And then they part.

Panting.

Eyes wide.

Grinning.

Something hot and heady twists in Merlin’s belly. His hand clenches around Arthur’s arm and he swallows, his breath still coming in short staccato gasps. He can’t speak, can’t remember how.

Arthur presses their lips together once more, slow and sensuous. Merlin shifts, trying to get closer; he shoves his thigh between Arthur’s legs and gasps when he feels the hardness there.

This makes Arthur grunt, and Merlin relishes the way Arthur ruts against him, needy and wild with desire.

They kiss some more, their bodies twisting together, and then Arthur pulls away abruptly, gasping.

“Merlin,” he huffs. “Stop.”

Merlin goes as still as stone, his stomach fluttering with a sudden unpleasant feeling.

But Arthur returns his hand to Merlin’s cheek and holds it there, his mouth curling into a soft smile. “Not that I don’t want to continue,” he says. “But…”

“Morgana,” Merlin breathes.

How could he have forgotten?

Arthur nods gravely.

“We need to figure out a plan,” he says. “All this…” he kisses Merlin again, but it’s fleeting and chaste. “Can come later.”

“Right.” For a blissful moment in time, Merlin had forgotten about everything except how much he wants Arthur, and the realisation that Arthur wants him too.

It's time to face reality.

“Besides,” Arthur says, wrinkling his nose. “You have terrible morning breath.”

Merlin splutters, then he slaps Arthur’s arm in retaliation. “You prat,” he grumbles. “You are such a… such a _clot pole_!”

*

They convene in Gaius’ room. Merlin can’t stop stealing glances at Arthur, remembering how it felt to have his lips on his, to have Arthur touch him with the kind of tenderness he had so often imagined. Arthur catches him a few times, arching his eyebrows as if to say, _Focus, Merlin_!

Arthur’s right – this is hardly the time to be mooning around like some love-struck teenager. Merlin pinches the back of his hand a few times, which helps him get his act together.

“We must find out where Morgause is keeping Morgana,” Gaius says, his expression serious. “I suppose they will be staying at one of the manors, now that they ostensibly belong to your sister.”

Arthur rubs his eyes and nods. “But how can we know for certain?”

“I could use magic,” Merlin suggests. “To search for Morgana.”

Gaius looks thoughtful. “It could work,” he says. “Though scrying is a tricky business, even for the most practiced of magic users.”

“I’m not talking about scrying,” Merlin says, ignoring Gaius’ raised eyebrow. “I could just… look.”

“You can do that?” Arthur stares at him, astonished.

“I think so.” Ever since he’d undone the blindness spell, Merlin had begun to realise certain things about his magic. Namely, that he could use intent to do just about anything.

“Well,” Arthur says primly. “What are you waiting for?”

“Merlin –“ Gaius starts, but Merlin cuts him off with a raised hand.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I know what to do. Sort of.”

Neither Arthur nor Gaius looks convinced, but Merlin ignores them. He summons an image of Morgana in his head – a _sense_ of Morgana – and immediately he feels the trail of her energy extending beyond his vision. He sets his mind upon it and begins to follow, fragments of places flashing into his vision.

First, the hotel where they’re staying, then his vision snaps to the road outside, then criss-crosses over London, following a seemingly random trail across the land, skimming green pastures and stone walls, following babbling rivers and climbing rocky hillsides. He knows where he’s going before he’s even got there, but before the journey ends he hears a faint voice in his ear:

“Merlin.”

He flies over treetops, across roads and through dense forests. The earthy scent of the woodland fills his nostrils.

“Merlin!”

The house is just as he remembers it. Dark and broken, rotting away like the carcass of some poor dead animal.

“Merlin! Come back!”

He swoops in through a broken window, chases dust down a damp corridor, and emerges in a large bedroom. The bed is occupied by a dark-haired woman, her limbs splayed out across the bedspread, her eyes closed in sleep.

“MERLIN!”

Merlin ricochets back into the hotel, the world spinning around him until he’s sick and woozy. Arthur is leaning over him, his face creased with fear, his hand tight on Merlin’s shoulder.

“I’m all right,” Merlin gasps, winded from the abrupt return to his body. “I’m all right.”

Arthur doesn’t move. “You left,” Arthur whispers, pupils wide with panic. “It was like you… you were gone.”

“I went to Camelot,” Merlin croaks. “Morgana’s there.”

But Arthur’s face remains tensed with fear. He searches Merlin’s face, looking for reassurance. Merlin reaches up his hand and touches Arthur’s jaw, offering him an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know what would happen.”

Arthur lets out a long, slow breath, his grip loosening on Merlin’s shoulder. He hangs his head and presses his forehead to Merlin’s. “Just don’t ever do that again,” he breathes.

When they let go of each other, Gaius is watching them curiously, a question glittering in his eyes.

*

In the end there’s really only one plan that will work, though it takes Arthur some convincing.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Merlin crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s the only way, Arthur. Morgause has magic; she could kill you with a wave of her hand. At least I can defend myself.”

“I’m not letting you go in alone.”

“Then what do you propose?”

Arthur huffs. “We go in together. You’ll need help getting Morgana out.”

“And if we run into Morgause?”

“Just – do your thing and knock her unconscious or something.”

He forgets, sometimes, how much of a prat Arthur is. “Oh, great, yes, I’ll just do that. I’m sure that will work perfectly.” He rolls his eyes. “She’ll go for you, Arthur. She wants to hurt you.”

“If I may – “ Gaius interrupts. “I think Merlin is right.”

Arthur snorts. “Oh, excellent.”

Ignoring him, Gaius continues: “Merlin is a match for Morgause; he will have to seek her out and incapacitate her. Once she’s indisposed, Arthur, you can go in and help retrieve Morgana. She may be unconscious, or even unwilling if the spell is in effect at the time. It will require two of you to get her out safely.”

It’s the only reasonable plan they’ve got, but Arthur pinches his mouth together in a displeased line. “I don’t like it,” he says. “It puts Merlin in too much danger.”

This is both gratifying and infuriating. “None of us like it,” Merlin says, gentling his voice. “But what other choice is there?”

Arthur’s shoulders sag. “Fine,” he grunts.

And that’s that.


	11. Chapter 11

Merlin doesn’t sleep on the drive to Monmouth this time. He’s too keyed up, his body alight with nervousness; he jitters his leg the entire journey, much to Arthur’s irritation.

“Will you stop that?” he growls at one point, shooting Merlin a side-eyed glare.

“Sorry,” Merlin says, pausing mid-fidget. “Just – nervous.”

Arthur’s glare softens and he reaches over and envelops Merlin’s knee with his palm for a few blessed seconds. “I know,” he says. “Me too.”

Like last time, the sky unleashes a torrential downpour as they get close to Wales. Merlin tries very hard not to think of the rain as a bad omen, and he’s grateful that Arthur’s driving – Merlin’s always hated driving in the rain.

As they pass through the township of Monmouth, Merlin’s stomach lurches unpleasantly. They’re really doing this. They’re really throwing themselves into a potentially life-threatening situation, one they have every chance of never returning from.

It makes Merlin wish he was back at the office, shuffling papers and fetching Arthur’s coffee.

Soon they reach the woodlands. Arthur pulls into an unfamiliar driveway and Merlin glances at him in confusion. “Arthur, this isn’t –“

“It’s the secondary drive,” Arthur interrupts. “But hardly used, as you can see.” Indeed, the trees have grown low over what remains of the gravel, and branches scratch the car as they pass through. “I’m hardly going to drive up to the main entrance. Honestly, Merlin.”

He has a point.

“Right,” Merlin says. “Good.”

They roll to a stop.

Merlin turns towards Arthur. “When I’ve secured Morgause I’ll send you a signal,” he says quickly. “That’s how you’ll know it’s safe to come and get Morgana.”

Arthur looks at him with an unhappy expression. “And what if something goes wrong?”

Something twinges in Merlin’s chest. “Then you get out of here as fast as you can.”

Every muscle in Arthur’s body tenses, his face clouding over like a storm. “No,” he says vehemently. “If you think I would _ever_ abandon you –“

But Merlin cuts him off. “What could you do, Arthur? You’re only human; Morgause has magic. She could break you like a twig.”

Arthur huffs furiously. “What will your signal be?” he finally says through gritted teeth.

Merlin can’t help the tiny smile that curls at his lips. “Ever seen an owl in the daylight?”

*

Everything goes to hell just about immediately.

When the house finally comes into view between the thick undergrowth, Merlin is dismayed to discover that Morgause is not, in fact, working alone. Several other cars are parked in the driveway – ominous vehicles with tinted windows and sleek black paint jobs. There are guards stationed at the main entrance to the manor, dressed in dark suits with guns holstered at their hips.

It occurs to Merlin that they underestimated Morgause; she is not simply a woman intent on revenge, but a woman with ambition. It’s clear she has plans, though what they might be Merlin hasn’t the faintest idea.

There’s no way Merlin’s going to get inside using the main entrance, but Arthur mentioned a side entrance that leads directly to the servants’ quarters. All Merlin needs to do is pass from the forest into the shadow of the building without attracting the attention of the guards. He takes a deep breath, lifts his hand, and directs his magic to the woods on the other side of the drive way. There’s a snapping sound, and the crack of branches as a bough hits the forest floor.

The guards snap to attention, hands on the butts of their guns as they advance a few steps towards the noise. Merlin uses the momentary distraction to dart out from the cover of the trees; he runs for the side of the manor, hoping no one is looking out of any of the windows above. He flattens himself against the brick and sucks in a deep breath.

When no alarm is raised, he exhales.

Peering around, he sees the entrance Arthur had mentioned. It’s non-descript, with none of the flourish of the other doors and windows. Merlin creeps towards it, heart pounding. As he approaches he opens it with his magic, wincing at the creak it makes as it swings open, but there’s nobody there to notice, so he slinks inside and shuts the door behind him.

The hallway Merlin finds himself in is dark and musty. He mutters an illumination spell and a light appears in his hand, bluish and pulsating with an ethereal glow. There are doors spanning the length of the hallway – to bedrooms, Merlin supposes – but he bypasses these and heads for the door at the other end.

This one is slightly ajar, and Merlin looks through the crack, not sure where it leads to. He’s surprised to see the kitchen where he and Arthur had sat after his first visit to this place. There’s nobody there, but there are signs of inhabitation: dirty dishes by the sink and a half-eaten loaf of brown bread laid out on the table. He sneaks through it and comes to another door. Behind this one he can hear voices.

His heart pumps furiously.

If this is going to work he needs to act quickly. He turns the doorknob slowly, then, without hesitation, he throws the door open and bursts into the hallway beyond. There are two guards at the other end, guarding another door. Merlin thrusts his hand out before they can respond; with a flick of his wrist he shuts off their voices. They come charging towards him like two furious bulls, mouths open in silent roars.

With another flick Merlin turns the floor beneath their feet to ice; they start to slip, their expressions turning to fear. Soon they lose their balance and crash to the floor; one hits his head on the wall and knocks himself out, the other scrambles to his feet, still slipping around in a comical fashion. He advances slowly, baring his teeth. Merlin summons a rope of magic that glimmers with a blue light. He twists it around the guard, fixing his arms in place and forcing his legs to come together. Unable to keep himself upright, the guard topples over like the first. Merlin deftly waves him to the wall beside the other guard and ties them together.

He leaves them struggling against their bonds, mouths still open in unheard protests.

At the next door, Merlin pauses. Morgause could be behind it, and unlike these two guards she’ll be much more able to defend herself.

But Merlin doesn’t have time to worry about that. He has something she doesn’t: the ability to perform magic without speaking.

He opens the door with his magic; it creaks open, revealing a large sitting room with a blazing fireplace, antique furniture, and wooden walls. Like the rest of the house, it has fallen into disrepair, and what once would have been a grand entertaining venue is now no more than a dreary, musty room.

But Merlin doesn’t have time to ruminate on this for very long, for Morgause is seated in one of the faded armchairs, her fingers curled around the armrests as if she is sitting on a throne.

In the chair opposite her is a man with long, oily hair and an unpleasant face.

“You,” Morgause spits as soon as she sets eyes on Merlin.

Merlin steps into the room. “You’ve had your fun,” he tells her. “It’s time to let Morgana free.”

Morgause sneers. “Morgana is free,” she says. “Free of the bonds that held her back from her true potential.”

“She isn’t free,” Merlin counters. “You’re poisoning her with magic.”

“I’m helping her,” Morgause snarls.

She really believes that, Merlin realises. He raises a hand. “Let her go, or else.”

Morgause’s laugh is full of rich amusement. “Oh, how precious. A pathetic little sorcerer like you can’t hurt me.”

Merlin summons the magical rope again and sends it hurtling towards Morgause, but she swats it away as if it is nothing more than an irritating fly.

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

He tries again, but with the same result. Before he can counter with another attack she throws her hand out and screams a spell. Merlin gets swept to the side and crashes into the wall, narrowly managing to avoid knocking his head against the wood.

“Cenred.” He hears Morgause say. “Go check on Morgana.”

The man makes his way out of the room, shooting Merlin a smug smile as he leaves. Merlin gets to his feet, wincing at the pain in his shoulders and back. “Stop,” he says. “Don’t do this.”

Morgause sneers. “You are weak,” she says. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

At this, Merlin throws his hand out. His magic buffets her backwards and she stumbles, catching herself on the back of the armchair.

“I could teach you,” she says. “With practice you could become strong. A true warlock.”

“No,” Merlin growls. He concentrates his power on the hearth shovel hanging beside the roaring fire. While Morgause advances he pulls it free and wills it closer. It hangs in the air for a moment before beginning to float towards them. When Morgause is in front of him, the shovel is right behind her head.

But she’s too quick. With a flick of her wrist she sends the shovel hurtling onto the floor, and then with her other hand she touches Merlin’s forehead and mutters, **_beslǣp._**

Merlin crumples. He’s out before his head hits the floor.

*

He wakes with a pounding in his head and a taste like cotton wool in his mouth.

He’s also outside.

Underneath him is nothing but gravel, above is a grey sky. He blinks and looks around and sees trees and cars, and to his right, the manor. When he tries to move, he finds he is bound – not by magical rope like what he used to tie the guards – but by real rope that chafes at his wrists and inhibits his breathing.

Morgause is standing nearby; she looks pleased.

It would take only a second to release the bonds tying him down, but before he can manage it Morgause speaks:

“Don’t try anything,” she growls. “My men are fetching your precious Arthur as we speak.”

Merlin slumps. “Don’t hurt him,” he says quietly.

It’s harder than Merlin could have imagined, seeing three men dragging Arthur across the driveway, his face twisted with anger as he struggles to escape. Merlin’s heart has dropped right out of his chest and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe_ –

“Merlin,” says a voice. A gentle, soothing voice. “It’s all right.”

It’s Arthur. He’s been forced to his knees in front of Merlin, close enough to see the bruises on his jaw but too far to touch. Merlin stares into the eyes of the man he thinks he might love and wonders if it will be the last thing he sees.

“All I wanted was for you to leave us alone,” Morgause says. “It didn’t have to come to this.”

Arthur squares his shoulders and juts his chin out. “It still doesn’t,” he says calmly. “Just let us go with Morgana and we’ll leave you in peace.”

Morgause’s eyes flash with anger. “Morgana despises you. She is happy with me.”

“You’re lying,” Merlin says. “Let her go.”

“No!” Morgause’s magic slaps them both so hard they are knocked to the gravel, cheeks grazing the sharp stones and coming away raked with blood.

Wincing, Merlin and Arthur both sit upright again. Morgause is fuming, her chest rising and falling quickly, her eyes blazing. Merlin thinks, _we are going to die here_.

And then a voice rings out from the manor’s entrance: “Stop this!”

Morgause whips around, hair flying. “Sister!” she says breathlessly. “What are you doing up?”

Morgana’s face is pale, her lips thin and drawn together. She looks furious. “Is it such an unusual time to be awake?” she asks coldly.

“But you are not well,” murmurs Morgause, edging towards her.

“Thanks to you,” Morgana agrees.

Morgause freezes. “I – what are you talking about, sister?”

“You’ve been poisoning my mind with mandrake root, haven’t you?”

“Of course not. Don’t be absurd.”

Morgana’s eyes glow with a furious orange light. “Don’t lie to me!” she snaps, and Morgause’ voice vanishes. She claws at her throat, then sinks to her knees. At the same time Morgause’s men rush forward from all sides, their weapons raised, but Morgana brushes them away like gnats; they fly into the trees, some hitting their heads, others fleeing in terror. “You took away my autonomy,” she growls. “I’ve been fighting for so long. Today I am myself again.”

Morgana looks down on Morgause with revulsion, then her eyes drift to Merlin and Arthur, still trussed and smeared with blood.

Remembering his own magic, Merlin flicks his wrist and their bindings fall away. Arthur is on his feet immediately, rushing to Merlin’s side, checking him for injuries, eyes wild with panic.

“I’m all right,” Merlin assures him, tugging Arthur’s hands away from his cheek and holding them his own shaking hands. “I swear.” He glances at Morgana, who is still watching them warily. Her body sways and Merlin nudges Arthur away. “She needs you,” he says gently.

Arthur squeezes Merlin’s hands and nods stiffly. He gets to his feet and walks past Morgause – still on her knees – to where Morgana is standing. He catches her in a hug just as her legs give out, and although he stumbles at the sudden weight, he doesn’t let her go. She grips the back of his jacket with trembling fingers and sobs into his shoulder. Arthur murmurs something and strokes Morgana’s hair until she’s strong enough to stand again.

They turn to Morgause.

“What should we do with her?” Arthur asks.

Morgana’s expression has lost all traces of anger. Instead she simply looks sad. “Nothing,” she says. “Morgause has suffered enough. Without her voice she is powerless.”

Arthur looks like he might argue, but when he sees the look on Morgana’s face he closes his mouth and nods. “All right,” he agrees. “Then let’s go home.”

*

On the journey home Merlin and Morgana sleep while Arthur drives. Merlin feels guilty at first, but then he sees the way Arthur’s hands grip the steering wheel – so tight his knuckles are white – and he realises that Arthur isn’t likely to sleep anyway.

So he passes out in the passenger seat and wakes when they turn in to Pendragon Manor. It’s dark; Merlin has no idea what the time might be but it feels late. He wants to sleep for many more hours.

The three of them trudge up the steps and Arthur unlocks the door. Everything is as it was – it would seem Morgause had never come here. That, at least, is a blessing. On the threshold Morgana freezes, her eyes roving around the interior of the entrance, her skin ghostly white. Arthur doubles back and touches his hand to her shoulder. She startles and glances at him with a tired smile. “It’s been a while,” she says softly. “I’d forgotten…” she trails off and Arthur sighs.

“I know,” he says. “Memories.”

She nods. Then she gestures towards the kitchen. “Do you mind if I – ?”

Arthur nods and Morgana shuffles out of the room, the door closing behind her with a soft _click_.

Then Arthur’s hand is on Merlin’s back, guiding him towards the staircase. Merlin obeys without question, drifting towards the bedrooms with only Arthur’s presence preventing him from keeling over then and there.

At the door to the bedroom he’d stayed in before, Merlin hesitates. Arthur takes note for he pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “Merlin?” he queries.

Merlin presses himself into Arthur, not sure how to convey what he wants, not even sure if it’s all right.

But Arthur understands right away. He tucks Merlin more closely into his side and guides him to another door – the door to Arthur’s bedroom. With a gentle nudge he pushes the door open and they step inside.

The room is plain and serene. There’s a four-poster bed in the centre with side tables and antique lamps. On one side is a wardrobe flanked by a set of drawers. The door to the bathroom is on the right. His window looks out over the gardens, but in the darkness all that is visible are the lights of the city in the distance.

Merlin says, “I’m sorry,” just as Arthur tugs him into a proper hug. His voice is muffled by Arthur’s jacket.

Arthur huffs into Merlin’s hair. “Don’t be stupid,” he says.

“I fucked up,” Merlin continues. He pulls back and touches his palm to Arthur’s grazed cheek. “She hurt you.”

Arthur mirrors Merlin’s position. “She hurt you too,” he says. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But I wasn’t –“

Arthur shushes him with a hand to his lips. “Don’t,” Arthur says firmly. Merlin falls silent.

Then, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, Arthur begins to undress him. He starts with Merlin’s shirt, unbuttoning it with deft fingers and pushing it off over Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin is too startled to do anything but comply.

“I always imagined you undressing me in different circumstances,” Merlin mutters as Arthur drops the shirt to the floor.

Arthur grins, his hands already undoing Merlin’s belt buckle. “It’s not my fault you’re completely useless when you’re tired,” he says, pushing Merlin’s jeans onto the floor so he can step out of them.

Merlin smiles back, heart stuttering painfully.

Merlin is left in nothing but his underwear, but he can’t muster the energy to be embarrassed. “Go to bed,” Arthur tells him when he’s finished removing Merlin’s clothing.

With a sort of bone-deep weariness that makes Merlin’s feet feel like lead weights, he drags himself into the bed that smells like Arthur and curls up under the covers. He’s asleep before Arthur even leaves the room.

He wakes when Arthur returns.

“Arthur?” he slurs, feeling the bed dip beneath the weight of another person. He turns over to see Arthur lying on his side, his eyes red-rimmed but dry. “You talked to her?”

Arthur nods. He looks like a weight has been removed from his shoulders. He looks like exhaustion personified. He looks like he needs a hug.

Merlin curls his arm over Arthur’s waist and tucks his hand into the space between his shoulder blades. Like a punctured tire Arthur exhales and sags into Merlin’s embrace, tucking his head into Merlin’s neck.

Gently, reverently, Merlin strokes Arthur’s hair.

“Merlin?” Arthur says after a pause.

“Mm?” Merlin hums sleepily.

“I’m glad you’re here.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahem. Things get a little more steamy in this chapter.

A week passes. Arthur and Merlin hardly see each other; Merlin returns to his flat and tidies it with Gaius’ help (and maybe a little bit of magic too). That way he is able give Arthur and Morgana some space to reconcile. When Merlin speaks to Arthur on the phone on the Wednesday night he sounds tired but happy. There’s a ton of paperwork for the two of them to do, given that Morgana was previously considered legally dead. And then there’s the matter of the estate, which they divide evenly between the two of them – just as it always should have been.

Morgana declines Arthur’s offer to live at Pendragon Manor. Instead she requests to take charge of Camelot so that she might restore it. Arthur obliges willingly, and that Saturday Merlin, Arthur and Gaius all take turns to embrace Morgana before she folds herself into her sleek new BMW and glides out of London.

After she’s gone they retire into the house. They eat a light supper together, and then Gaius takes his leave, citing a desire to return home. They farewell him at the door and suddenly it is only the two of them.

Merlin feels absurdly shy; he avoids Arthur’s eye as they make their way back to the kitchen. They sit in the chairs beside the fireplace, which is crackling cheerily in the grate. For a while Merlin just watches it, mesmerised by the flames.

Then Arthur says, “Do you think she’ll be all right?” and Merlin looks at him, finally. His eyes are focused on the fire but it’s clear his thoughts are far away.

“She’s been through a lot,” Merlin says. “But she’s strong. I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone as strong as her.”

Arthur snorts in understanding. “Did I do the right thing? Letting her leave? Should I have kept her here so I could keep an eye on her?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Morgana’s been under other people’s eyes her whole life. Let her be her own person for once. She needs that.”

He must see the truth in this, for Arthur nods. “You’re right,” he says after a pause.

With a sly grin, Merlin says, “Did you just admit I’m right?”

Arthur huffs and finally meets his gaze. “Shut up,” he says, though he’s smiling too.

For a while they do nothing more than just grin at each other. The firelight casts attractive shadows over Arthur’s face and for once Merlin allows himself to simply appreciate how handsome he is, to revel in the realisation that a spark exists between them.

Eventually Arthur says, “Do you want to stay the night?”

And Merlin goes a very bright shade of red, which he hopes is hidden by the warm glow of the fire. “Um,” he hedges. “Ye-es.” He hiccups that last bit, which makes him blush even harder.

But Arthur’s answering smile is gentle, his eyes glimmering with a hint of suggestion. “Good,” he says. He stands and offers his hand to Merlin. “Come to bed?”

There’s something about Arthur standing in front of him, his slender fingers outstretched, his face lit with an expectant flush, asking Merlin to accompany him to bed, that sends shivers racing down Merlin’s spine. He takes Arthur’s proffered hand and is lifted to his feet.

They make their way up the stairs in silence, Arthur’s hand warm in Merlin’s own. Merlin’s heart is pounding, and it only gets more insistent as they enter Arthur’s bedroom.

As the door snicks shut behind them, Arthur turns to face Merlin. Without a beat of hesitation he pulls Merlin in close and presses their lips together in a heated kiss. Merlin’s whole world tilts on its axis as Arthur’s lips move against his, and drops out of orbit when Arthur’s tongue slips into his mouth. He makes a sound – half moan, half whimper – and Arthur pulls away and says, breathily, “All right, Merlin?”

And Merlin nods and crashes their lips together again – needy, hungry.

Arthur grunts, his hands coming to rest on Merlin’s back, and then beginning to roam. He strokes Merlin’s shoulders, his sides, his hips, then presses all ten digits into the soft flesh of Merlin’s backside.

Merlin makes another keening sound and surges closer to Arthur, hands gripping the back of Arthur’s head, fingers tangled in the fine strands of hair.

“Clothes,” Merlin rasps after several more minutes of frantic kissing.

Arthur huffs with surprised amusement, but his hands where they scrabble at Merlin’s t-shirt are wild and desperate. He manages to wrangle the shirt over Merlin’s head, then unbuttons his own in record time and throws it onto the floor. Merlin gets a glimpse of a well-toned chest and a soft belly before Arthur has him in another bruising kiss.

They both fumble with each other’s pants until Arthur exhales with frustration and undoes his own trousers, shoving them down until they pool around his ankles. Merlin follows suit, and they both nearly trip as they step out of their respective pants. For a moment they fall into laughter, clinging to each other to regain their balance, and when it’s restored they pant into each other’s mouths, trading softer kisses that make Merlin’s belly flutter.

Then Arthur’s hands grip Merlin’s hips with purpose. In one seemingly fluid motion he spins them around and pushes Merlin onto the bed. Merlin’s back hits the mattress and he lets out a surprised _oof_ , but Arthur isn’t finished. He drags Merlin so that his legs are off the edge, pushes his chest down, and then puts two thumbs at the hem of Merlin’s underwear. For a moment he hovers there, fingers teasing mercilessly at the tight pants. Until Merlin lifts his head and stares down at him.

What he sees takes his breath away: Arthur is kneeling between his legs, his face flushed, his eyes glittering with arousal. He drags one of his thumbs over the jut of Merlin’s hipbone and says, in a voice that is absolutely _criminally_ sexy, “May I?”

Merlin’s entire body shivers. He drops his head back down and stares helplessly at the ceiling.

“You –“ he pants. “Hhh.” And then he cants his hips upwards and says, through gritted teeth, “ _Please_.”

Arthur wastes no more time. He drags Merlin’s underwear down his legs, freeing his swollen cock.

When Merlin looks back down he’s caught off guard by how much like one of his fantasies this feels – but even he could never have imagined the hungry way Arthur looks at him.

With a flick of his tongue Arthur wets his lips, and then he grabs Merlin’s thighs and lifts them over his shoulders; with one scorching hand he holds the base steady, and with his tongue he trails a wet line of kisses all the way along the shaft, swiftly followed by slow, curling licks.

For five minutes Merlin forces himself to think about the Queen, otherwise he’s sure to embarrass himself.

But the tiny sounds Arthur makes as he pleasures Merlin are too much, and the expert way he uses his lips and tongue has Merlin on the edge in record time. And then Arthur’s hands glide upwards and over Merlin’s belly, coming to rest on his chest, thumbs tweaking Merlin’s nipples, and Merlin surrenders himself to all of it. To Arthur, to his lips and teeth and tongue and steady hands.

He comes with his hands fisted in the sheets, his mouth open in an extended moan. Arthur continues to lick at Merlin until he’s gone soft, until he’s too sensitive for any more.

Then Arthur drags himself up onto the bed, pushing Merlin further up at the same time. He captures Merlin’s mouth in a searing kiss and thrusts his hips against Merlin’s thigh. If there was every any doubt that Arthur wasn’t enjoying this as much as Merlin, it’s dispelled by the hard weight that ruts against Merlin’s skin, still covered by the thin layer of Arthur’s underwear.

Merlin, who absolutely refuses to miss the opportunity to see Arthur entirely naked, pushes at Arthur’s pants until Arthur hastily shoves them down to his knees. Then he presses his face into Merlin’s neck and resumes grinding against Merlin’s thigh.

It proves a little difficult, but Merlin manages to get his hand between Arthur’s legs and curl his fingers around his heavy cock. With a grunt of pleasure, Arthur begins thrusting into Merlin’s hand, the soft head rubbing against merlin’s thumb. It is, quite possibly, the sexiest thing Merlin has ever seen.

Although, nothing could compare to the sight of Arthur reaching climax. He comes silently, his face all scrunched up, his mouth making the shape of an O as his body shudders, spilling hot and wet over Merlin and the sheets. And then he makes a helpless sound and collapses on top of Merlin, his hands clenching at Merlin’s shoulders, his breath coming in short, juddering gasps.

Merlin wraps his arms around Arthur’s back and holds him in place, relishing the heavy weight of him – the security of his physical presence.

They lie like that for some time, until Arthur rolls to the side and gathers Merlin into his arms, his lips searching for Merlin’s. They kiss – lazily this time – and Merlin makes several embarrassingly soft hums and whimpers.

For once Arthur doesn’t tease; instead he smiles secretively into Merlin’s mouth, hands rising to cup Merlin’s face.

“You are a wonder,” Arthur says into the space between their breaths. “A marvel.”

Merlin makes another wrecked sound. Absurdly he feels like crying.

Arthur continues to kiss him until Merlin has nothing left to give. Then he simply holds Merlin against him, his naked thigh slipping between Merlin’s naked thigh, his strong arms tugging Merlin as close as possible.

Merlin places a kiss at Arthur’s collar, lips catching and dragging on the sharp bones.

This, he could never have imagined.

This is more than he thought he would ever have.

This is better than magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue to go now!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally reached the end! Thanks everyone who's been keeping up with this silly wee story. :) Thanks especially to everyone who has left kudos and comments! You're lovely.

** Six months later **

At first Merlin thinks they must have come to the wrong house.

They glide to a halt on a paved driveway in front of a magnificent manor, Arthur easing his Lexus into park and putting on the foot brake. Merlin stares up at the stunning architecture – the reddish brick façade, church style windows and high chimneys, hardly believing that this is the same manor he’d come to with Arthur all those months ago. What had once been a crumbling remnant of an age gone by is now a beautiful, well-tended house.

Even the outside is flourishing, with rose bushes tucked around the edges, small red flowers blooming in between the verdant leaves.

Perhaps it is the spring air, but it feels like an entirely different world. A fairy-tale come to life. Merlin glances over at Arthur, who is gazing up at his childhood house with open-mouthed surprise.

Gently, Merlin curls his fingers around Arthur’s hand, which hasn’t yet left the steering wheel.

“It looks…” Arthur begins, but a surge of emotion takes the rest of his sentence away.

“Beautiful,” Merlin finishes for him.

They get out of the car and as soon as they are both standing the manor doors are flung open, revealing Morgana in a summery green jump suit, her hair hanging in thick, healthy waves over her shoulders. She is beaming, her arms outstretched as she moves towards them.

Arthur wraps her up in his arms, his shoulders straining as he holds her close. Morgana laughs and holds him too, then pats him on the back. “Arthur,” she scolds, “You’ll break my ribs if you carry on like that.”

He lets her go and steps back. He is smiling – grinning. “Hello, Morgana,” he says.

But Morgana has spotted Merlin, She sweeps him up in a bone-crushing hug, knocking the breath right out of him. “Merlin!” she croons. “It’s wonderful to see you.” She lets him go and he staggers slightly.

“Hello,” he says when he’s got his breath back. “You’re looking well.”

“Morgana,” interrupts Arthur. “The house… it looks incredible.”

“Doesn’t it?” Morgana is still beaming. “It’s taken an age to get it to this point, you know. But I couldn’t bear to see it wasting away.” She stands between them and links both of their arms through hers, leading them inside. “Just wait till you’ve seen what I’ve done with the parlour…”

*

Merlin had assumed that Morgana had done most of the restoration work with her magic, but as they pick their way across the long hallway he realises he was wrong. There are ladders stacked against the walls, wood shavings littering the floor, paint buckets, tools and packets of fastenings all over the place.

In awe, Merlin says, “Where did you learn to do all this?”

Morgana laughs: a happy, proud sound. “Trial and error, Youtube videos… it’s been hard, but more rewarding than you could imagine.”

For his part, Arthur is speechless. He gazes around at the half-painted walls and stripped floors with wide eyes. Words escape him, but Morgana doesn’t seem to mind. She leads them into a bright, light-filled room that she’s clearly finished. The panelled walls have been sanded back and waxed so they shine, the windows scrubbed, the ceilings painted a pinky white that suffuses the room with warmth. The furniture has been replaced, although everything still has an air of antiquity.

Morgana gestures for them to sit in plush armchairs. She disappears to get tea and once she’s gone Merlin and Arthur exchange glances.

“This is –“ Merlin breathes, just as Arthur says, “I never thought –“

They both stop to grin stupidly at one another.

Before they can say anything more Morgana reappears carrying a tray laden with a teapot, tea cups and a bowl of shortbread. She places it on the antique table in the centre of their seats.

“So what do you think?” she asks as she hands each of them a cup of tea.

Arthur smiles broadly. “You’ve done an amazing job,” he says. “Really, Morgana.”

“It’s incredible,” Merlin agrees.

Morgana looks pleased. She smiles brightly. “This place holds so many memories,” she says, her smile fading a little. “Not just our family’s, but so many other lives were lived here. I wanted to… honour all those memories. Good and bad.”

Arthur reaches out and places his hand over Morgana’s. “That’s a noble thing.”

She nods and takes a sip of tea. “And how are you two? Is Arthur treating you well, Merlin?”

Ignoring Arthur’s indignant spluttering, Merlin says, with a grin, “Oh, you know, he’s just as much of a prat as ever, but I’ve learned to see past that.”

Morgana snorts. “Lucky for him.”

They’re silent for a time, and in the quiet of the moment, Merlin notes of the way Morgana’s gaze starts to droop, her mouth curving ever so slightly downwards. “Morgana,” he says gently. “How are you doing?”

She looks up at him abruptly, “I…” she stops herself, takes a breath. “It’s been difficult,” she admits. “I love the freedom here – a life without strings.” Her lips twitch. “But to tell you the truth it’s lonely too. There’s no one but me in this big house. I do have a therapist though,” she adds. “That helps.”

“You know you can always move back to London,” Arthur says gently, still holding her hand.

“I know,” Morgana says, nodding. “But I can’t. Not yet.”

“Well,” Arthur says. “We’re always here for you.”

She nods, squeezing Arthur’s hand. “You don’t know how much that means,” she says.

“Actually,” Merlin says, “We’ve made a few changes since you were last in London.” He catches Arthur’s eye and continues as soon as Arthur nods. “We’ve moved out of Pendragon Manor and into a smaller place. And I’m… well, since I can’t exactly work for Arthur now that we’re… you know… I had to find something else to do. So I’ve been renting out the rooms as short-stay accommodation. We advertise it as a historical experience… and we’ve hired a few people to help with the upkeep. You remember Gwen?”

Morgana’s face brightens. “Oh! Yes! How wonderful.”

“But there will always be a room for you at the manor,” Arthur reassures her. “If that’s ever what you wanted.”

“Thank you,” she says, her smile tinged with sadness. “But I’m not sure I could ever return to that place.”

“I understand,” Arthur soothes.

They sit in comfortable silence for a time. Eventually Arthur says, haltingly, “Morgana… I’m glad to have you back. I… missed you.”

Her eyes shimmer. “Me too, Arthur. And I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused you and Merlin.” Tears roll down her cheeks; Arthur gets up from his chair and kneels beside hers so he can wrap her up in his arms, her cheek on his shoulder.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” he says firmly.

Merlin’s heart warms at the sight and his eyes burn. Morgana meets his gaze, her head pressed into Arthur’s shoulder. Her face is smudged with relief.

*

They visit Uther’s gravestone. The grass has grown thicker and longer since they were last here and the hems of Merlin’s trousers become damp and heavy as he follows Morgana and Arthur into the clearing. He can’t see the stone marker for the grass, but the others don’t hesitate; they wade through the field and kneel down, and Arthur’s hand pushes away a thatch of soggy weeds to reveal the stone.

Merlin, seeing the complicated breadth of emotion on Morgana’s face, turns away and leaves them to their memories. He can feel the weight of Arthur’s gaze on his back, but when he reaches the edge of the woods and looks behind the two of them are huddled together, arms around each other, Morgana’s head on Arthur’s shoulder, their faces bowed towards the grey stone.

They stay like that for half an hour at least while Merlin stalks the forest, feeling the magic that thrums amidst the trees; it’s a pure form of magic – natural, untouched. It’s not the sort of magic he can control, but the kind that exists everywhere, holding the fabric of the world in place. To disturb it would be hubris.

So he just walks, touching his palms to the tree trunks, feeling the wash of the breeze over his face. The leaves are newly green, budding and beautiful. This forest is ancient; it’s seen people come and go, battles fought, tragedies overcome.

And, for a brief period of time, it watched over Arthur and Morgana as they played beneath the canopy. While their home was a place of unhappiness, the forest brought them solace.

Quietly, under his breath, Merlin gives his thanks.

*

Later, in the car, as they are readying to leave, Arthur pauses with his hand on the gearstick.

“Do you think she’ll be all right?” he asks, his gaze still locked onto the manor doors, which Morgana had just shut behind her.

Merlin turns his answer over in his mind before speaking.

“In time,” he says eventually. “But she’s going to need you.”

Arthur’s jaw is tight when he nods. “I’m going to be there for her this time. This time I’m going to get it right.”

Slowly, lovingly, Merlin tugs Arthur into his arms; he kisses the place just below his eye, then the slope of his jaw. “I know you will,” he says. “And I’ll be here, too.”

Arthur sighs, and as he does, he sinks, melting into Merlin’s arms, burying his face in Merlin’s collar.

_I love you_ , Merlin thinks.

“Do you want me to drive?” he asks, gently, into the shell of Arthur’s ear. “I don’t mind; if you’re tired.”

Arthur twitches and pulls back; his hand curls over the gearstick possessively. “Not a chance,” he says, brow furrowed.

Merlin snorts and rolls his eyes.

Arthur grins.


End file.
